Cry to Heaven (41 page)

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!”

T
HE
E
ASTER
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, that 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.

And Guido, where was Guido? Surrounded by people, Guido was actually laughing, the little Contessa Lamberti on his arm.

Tonio stopped, took a deep, ungraceful gulp of his white wine, and continued his wandering. More guests streamed in and there was a blast of fresh air from the front doors.

He leaned his shoulder against the fretted edge of a long mirror, and without willing it, realized it had been his last day in Venice when he had seen his future wife, oh, so many things had happened that day, he had lain with Catrina, he had sung in San Marco.

This was dreadful, and how long had he been in Naples? Almost a year!

When he saw Guido beckon, he went to him.

“You see that little man there, the Russian, Count Sherzinski,” Guido whispered. “He’s a brilliant amateur, and I’ve written a sonata for him. He may play it later on.”

“Why, that’s splendid,” Tonio whispered. “But why don’t you play it?”