Cry to Heaven (20 page)

He turned slowly, cautiously, and saw a man with a commonplace and brutal face, his beard so roughly shaved that it left a hide of bluish bristle.

“Has the maestro from Naples found what he was looking for?” asked the man under his breath.

Guido took his time before answering. He took a swallow of white wine. Then he followed it with a swallow of scalding hot coffee. He liked the coffee cutting through the softness created in him by the wine.

“I don’t know you,” he said, looking at the open door. “How is it you know me?”

“I have a pupil who will interest you. He wishes to be taken at once by you to Naples.”

“Don’t be so certain he will interest me,” said Guido. “And who is he that he tells me to take him to Naples?”

“You’d be a fool not to be interested,” said the man. He had drawn so close to Guido that Guido could feel his breath. And smell it also.

Guido’s eyes turned mechanically to the side until he was staring at the man. “Come to the point,” he said, “or get away from me.”

The man made a little smile that disfigured his face. “Some eunuch you are,” he muttered.

Guido’s hand moved very slowly but obviously under his cape until he closed his fingers around the handle of the stiletto. And he smiled, having no real appreciation of how truly appalling were the contrasts in his face, the sensuous mouth, the flattened nose, and the eyes which alone might have been swimming and pretty.

“Listen to me,” came the man’s slow murmur. “And if you ever tell anyone what I have to say, it would be better for you if you had never set foot in this city.” He glanced to the door; then he continued. “The boy is highborn. He wishes to make a great sacrifice for his voice. But there are those who might try to dissuade him. It must be done with delicacy and very quickly. And it is his wish to leave as soon as it is done, do you follow me? There is a town south of Venice called Flovigo. Go there tonight, to the hostelry. And the boy will come to you.”

“What boy? Who?” Guido’s eyes narrowed. “The parents must consent to this. The inquisitors of state would—”

“I am a Venetian.” The man’s smile never wavered. “And you are not a Venetian. You take the boy to Naples, that’s enough.”

“Tell me who this boy is now!” Guido’s voice had the tone of a threat.

“You know him. You heard him this afternoon in San Marco. You’ve heard him with his vagabond singers in the streets.”

“I don’t believe you!” Guido whispered.

The man showed a leather purse to Guido. “Go to your inn,” he said. “Prepare to leave immediately.”

For a moment, Guido stood in the rain outside his door as if it might bring him back to his senses. He was thinking with portions of his mind he had not used in all his life; he felt the unusual exhilaration of cunning. Part of him said go at once and get any ship out of here that will take you. Another said what is going to happen will happen whether you are here to benefit from it or not. But what exactly is going to happen? He was startled when he felt a hand on his elbow. He had not even seen this person approaching. But through the thin chilling veil
of rain, he could not even perceive this man’s expression. All he felt was the hand on his arm causing him immediate pain as the voice whispered in his ear, “Maestro, come, now.”

It was in the tavern that Tonio first caught sight of the three of them.

He was very drunk. He had been upstairs with Bettina, and coming down now into the smoky public room, he had slumped at a bench against the wall, unable to move farther. He must talk to Ernestino, explain to him that tonight he could not go with him or the others. These mingled horrors could find no voice. Such music had not yet been written.

And as he peered into this dingy gloom an odd thought came to him; he should have lost consciousness by this time. He had never before drunk so much and remained awake to witness his own disintegration.

Everything flickered that was this room, heavy bodies shifting under soot-darkened lamps, and the tankard descending in front of him.

He was about to drink when he saw the faces of those men, picked them out one by one, each it seemed at an angle so that it showed him the scrutiny of a single eye.

And in that moment when he linked the three of these men together in the recognition of who and what they were, he felt the stab of panic through the drunkenness which would have pushed him to despair.

Nothing changed in the room. He struggled to keep his eyes open. He even lifted the wine and drank it down without realizing what he was doing. And then he felt himself pitched forward glaring at one of these men as if in challenge. And then his head hit the wall in back.

A plan was struggling to find its form. He could not however reason it out. It involved determining how far he was from the Palazzo Lisani and which was the surest route. He lifted his hand as if attempting to grasp the threads that led him through
calli
and canals, and then all of this vanished. He saw one of these men coming towards him.

He moved his lips in the form of words but in this din he heard nothing of what he said, which was “My brother is going to have me killed.” He said this with wonder. Wonder that
it was in fact happening and wonder that until this very moment he had not really believed it possible!

Carlo? Carlo who wanted so desperately that Tonio
understand?
This was incomprehensible. But it was happening! He had to get out of this place.

And this demon of a bravo had settled opposite him, his hulking shoulders obliterating the entire tavern as his immense face drew closer: “Come on home, Signore….” he whispered. “Your brother must speak to you.”

“Ooooh, no.” Tonio shook his head.

He reached up to beckon for Bettina and he felt himself drawn up as if he were weightless, his feet tumbling over tangled limbs, until suddenly he was pulled into the
calle
. He gulped for air. The rain fell down in little slaps on his face. And attempting to stand, he slipped back against the damp wall.

But cautiously turning his head, he realized he was free.

He burst into a run.

He could feel pain in his feet pushing through numbness, but he knew that he was moving fast, dashing in fact, towards the mist which was the canal. And for one instant he pitched forward to see the lanterns at the landing before he was drawn back, struggling, into the dark. He had his stiletto out and dug it into something soft. Then it was clattering on the ground. And his mouth was being wrenched open while he was held.

He convulsed his body against this with all his strength. Then gagging, struggling for breath as a wedge was forced between his teeth, he felt the first draft of wine.

Once he threw it back up with a convulsion that encircled his ribs with pain. But then it came again. He felt if he couldn’t close his mouth or get loose he would go mad. Or drown.

Guido was not asleep. He was in that state which is more restful, from time to time, than sleep, because it can be savored. Lying on his back in this small monastic room in the tiny town of Flovigo, he was staring at the wooden shuttered window which he had opened to the spring rain.

The sky was lightening. It was perhaps an hour before dawn. And though ordinarily he would have been cold (he was fully dressed but the wind brought the rain into the room) he
was not cold. Rather the air made an icing on his skin which didn’t penetrate to the bone.

And for several hours now he had been thinking, and not thinking at the same time. In fact, never in his life had his mind seemed so empty and yet so full.

He knew things. But he did not think about them, though over and over again they passed through his mind.

He knew, for example, that in Venice the spies of the inquisitors of state were everywhere; they knew who ate meat on Friday and who beat his wife. And the officers of the inquisitors of state could arrest anyone anytime, secretly, and take him to a prison where he might be executed by poison or strangulation or drowning in the night.

He knew that the Treschi were a powerful family. He knew that Tonio was the favored son.

He knew that the laws of many a place in Italy forbade the castration of children unless there was some medical reason given for it, unless there was the consent of the parents and of the boy.

He knew that with the poor this meant absolutely nothing.

He knew that with the rich the operation was unheard of.

He knew that in this remote village, he was still in the Venetian State.

He wanted to get out of the Venetian State. He understood the corruption of southern Italy. He did not understand the corruption of this place.

And he knew too that every eunuch he’d ever known had been cut as a small boy, almost as soon as the testicles gained their first weight. But he did not know the reason for this, whether it was wise for the voice, or wise for just getting the operation done.

He knew that Tonio Treschi was fifteen. He knew that the voice generally drops three years after that. That the voice he had heard in the church was still unchanged, utterly pure.

He knew all of this. And he did not think about it. Nor did he think about the future, what might happen to him in an hour or in a day.

Then from time to time, he stopped knowing all this. And drifted into remembering—again without analysis—the first time he had heard Tonio Treschi’s voice.

*  *  *

It had been a misty night, and he had been lying on his bed, just as he was now in this room in Flovigo, fully dressed with the window open. The worst cold of winter was past and it would soon be mild enough to travel without so much discomfort.

He would regret leaving Venice, which had both enchanted and repelled him. He had been awed by its prosperous merchant class, and by its secretive and elaborate government. Day after day he had wandered about the Broglio and the piazza watching all the spectacle and ceremony attached to the Offices of State. And the dilettanti here, those rich musicians who were as skilled and talented as any he had ever known, had been uncommonly gracious to him.

But it was time to leave here. Time to go home to Naples with the two boys he had left waiting for him in Florence. He could not at this time bear to think about them; they were neither of them exceptional. And he feared perhaps some reproach from his superiors.

But he didn’t care. He was too weary from all this. It would be good to be teaching again, no matter what the odds. He wanted to be in Naples, in his rooms at the conservatorio where he had lived all his life.

Then he had heard this singing.

At first it seemed no more than the usual street entertainment. It was good, it was mildly interesting. But he heard plenty of it in Naples.

But then a soprano had risen above the rest, startling him with its exquisite tone and its remarkable agility.

He had gotten out of bed and gone to the window.

The walls rising before him shut out the sky. And below, circling the torches and lanterns along the canal, he saw a mist curling, rising. It was like something alive, this mist following as it did the path of water, and seeking out the light with tentacles. He did not like the sight of it.

He suddenly felt trapped in this labyrinthine place and eager for the open air, the spectacle of stars sliding down the curve of the sky into the Bay of Naples.

But this voice, this voice that seemed to be rising with the mist was causing him pain! And it was the first time in his life that he had encountered any voice he could not identify. Was this man, woman, or child?

Its coloratura was so light and flexible that it might be a woman. But no. It had that sharp, indefinable edge that was masculine. And it was young, very young. But who would have bothered to train a mere boy like this? Who would have lavished on him so many secrets?

The voice was perfectly on the note, weaving in and out of the violins that accompanied it, rising above them, dipping down, embellishing effortlessly.

And it did not have the sound of brass in it, this voice; it suggested wood rather than brass, the slightly darkened sound of a violin rather than the flatter sound of the trumpet.

It was a castrato, it had to be!

He was caught for a moment between the urge to go and seek it, and the desire merely to listen to it. That one so obviously young could sing with this feeling was simply out of the question. And yet he was hearing it. It was arresting him, transporting him, this voice with its acrobatic flexibility colored by so much sadness.

Sadness, that was it. He pulled on his boots, slipped on his heavy cape, and went in search of the singer.

What he found astonished him, but not entirely.

Following the little band of serenaders into a tavern he soon saw that this was a boy who was almost a man, a tall, lithe, angelic child with a man’s bearing. He was rich: he wore the finest Venetian lace at his throat, and on his fingers were garnets set in heavily worked silver. And those around him, full of affection and doting, called him “Excellency.”

I am alive, Tonio thought. I am in a room. People were moving, talking. And if he was alive, he could stay alive. And he’d been right, Carlo could not do this to him, not Carlo. With an enormous effort he managed to open his eyes. The darkness came rolling back over him, but he opened them again and saw the shadows slipping up the walls and across the low ceiling as these people talked.

That voice he knew, it was the bravo, Giovanni, who was forever at Carlo’s door, and he was saying something in a low, threatening voice.

Why hadn’t they killed him already? What was going on? He did not dare move until he was ready to make his move,
and through the slits of his eyes he could see this gaunt, dirty man holding some sort of valise in his hands who was saying:

“I will not do it! The boy’s too old.”

“He is not too old.” The bravo, Giovanni, was losing patience. “Do as you’re told, and do it well.”

What were they talking about? Do what? The bravo named Alonso was at his left side. There was a door behind the hollow-cheeked one who said now:

“I will have no part of this,” and commenced backing towards that door. “I’m not a butcher, I’m a surgeon….”