Cry to Heaven (46 page)

He stopped. It was a curious illusion. The doors were portals to some sort of overcrowded and tumultuous world.

He moved a little forward and made out that he was looking into a room full of paintings! On the wall was mounted an immense picture, but there were others before it on easels, and he stood for quite some time looking at these works. In the distance they seemed finished and alive: clusters of biblical faces and forms surely as perfected as those that covered all the palaces
and churches in which he’d ever been. There was Saint Michael the Archangel driving the damned into hell, his cape swirling beneath his lifted wings, his face subtly illuminated by the fire below. And beside him was a picture of a saint unknown to Tonio, a woman with a crucifix clasped to her breasts. The colors pulsed in the light. And all of these pictures seemed darker, more solemn, than those he’d known at Venice when he was a child.

He could hear little sounds from the room.

The stillness of the garden, its concealing darkness, gave him that delicious feeling of being invisible, and he drew even closer now, picking up the fragrance of the paint and the turpentine and the oil.

But as he reached the threshold nearest him, he realized the artist was at work inside. It couldn’t be she, he thought. These paintings had an authority, perhaps even a virility, that was lacking in those light and airy murals on the chapel walls. Yet as he saw the bent figure, clothed in black, before the canvas, he realized it was a woman who was painting, a woman holding the brush, and down her back there fell a wealth of glowing yellow hair.

It was she.

And I am alone with her, he thought suddenly. He stood very still.

But the sight of her sleeves rolled back from her bare arms, the shabbiness of her black chemise with its smears of paint, caused him an immediate panic. She looked lovely to him in this disarray. He stood gazing at her softened profile, the deep rose color of her lips, the dark blue of her eye.

Just when he knew he should leave here at once, she turned with a rustle of taffeta under her outer garments and looked him full in the eye.

“Signore Treschi,” she said and her voice penetrated him, causing him a little contraction in the chest. It was a sweet treble, soft at the edges, and caught off guard by it, he had to tell himself to answer her.

“Signorina.” He mumbled the word, and made her a little bow.

She was smiling; in fact, she seemed infected with an immediate gaiety, which gave her blue eyes a lovely glint. And as she rose from the chair, her dark chemise, tied at the neck,
opened, so that he saw an expanse of pink flesh above the bodice of her black dress. Her small cheeks were plumped with her smile, and all of her seemed round and real to him suddenly as if he’d seen her only on the stage in the past. Now she was here.

Her hair had those eternal wisps about it, but there were no stiff curls; it was merely parted in the middle and hung down everywhere, and he wondered how it would feel to the touch. The severity might have been cruel to another face, but her pretty features did not really seem to be her face. Her face was her dark blue eyes, and the smoky eyelashes around them and the utter seriousness which overcame her quite suddenly now.

It was such a sharp shift of expression he felt he must have caused it. And in an instant he understood something about her. She could not conceal her thoughts and emotions as other women did.

She did not move, but he felt exactly as if she were menacing him suddenly. He was certain she wanted to touch him, and he wanted to touch her! He could already feel the smooth flesh of her neck in his hands, her cheek against his thumb; he wanted to touch the delicate little curves of her ears. He imagined himself doing terrible things to her, and he could feel himself flush. It seemed absurd that she would wear clothing at all; her soft arms, her small wrists, that glimmer of pink flesh beneath her chemise, all of it was part of a delectable being that was foolishly, unnaturally disguised.

But this was dreadful.

The blood pounded in his face, and bowing his head for a moment, he let his eyes drift over all the painted faces around her, the great flashes of magenta and burnt umber and gold and white that made up this dazzling universe that had obviously come from her brush.

Yet she was inescapable. And she terrified him. Even the black taffeta of her dress disturbed him; why should she paint in black? The gleaming cloth was streaked with color, and she was so young and so seemingly innocent, and black was very wrong for her, and at the same time there was that delicious negligence about her, that soft disregard he’d found in her every single time their eyes had met.

She was smiling again. Bravely, she was smiling at him, and he had to speak to her; he must. He was going to tell her
something proper and decent, but he couldn’t think what and then to his absolute terror, she extended her naked hand.

“Won’t you come in, Signore Treschi?” she said in that same sweet treble. “Won’t you come in and sit with me for a while?”

“Oh, no, Signorina.” He made a deeper bow this time, backing away. “I don’t wish to disturb you, Signorina, and I…we…I should like to…I mean, we have never really been introduced, I…”

“But everyone knows you, Signore Treschi,” she said with a little nod to the chair near her, and that gaiety flashed exquisitely in her eyes before it abruptly died away.

She fell to staring at him in absolute silence when he did not move and merely stood staring in the same manner at her.

And he was doing exactly that and nothing more when he heard his name repeated behind him by the Contessa’s valet, who said he was wanted upstairs.

He positively rushed to answer the summons. The house was already crackling with laughter and thin music as he hurried along the upper corridor to be shown right into the Contessa’s rooms.

But then he saw Guido standing idly by with his lace shirt opened over his naked chest, and the Contessa herself just slipping into a ruffled dressing gown beside her immense and lavishly draped bed.

He was furious. He almost went out. But this woman was innocent of any attempt to wound him. She knew nothing of his bond with Guido, no more than anyone else knew of it. And when she saw Tonio, she brightened at once.

“Ah, beautiful child,” she said. “Come here. Come here and listen to me.” She lured him across the room with both her upturned little hands.

Tonio threw Guido his iciest smile and approached with a short bow. Her stout little figure looked warm all over as if it had only just been folded in a blanket or in the act of love.

“How is your voice tonight?” she said to him. “Sing to me now!”

He was outraged. He glared at Guido. He was being trapped.

“
Pange Lingua
,” she intoned, melting beautifully into the full Latin phrase.

“Sing, Tonio,” Guido said softly. “Your voice, is it all right tonight, good, bad, what?” His hair was all tousled and there was about him in the open shirt an almost lush look. There is your beautiful child, Tonio thought, your cherub. And this is what I get for loving a peasant.

He shrugged and let loose the beginning of the
Pange Lingua
at full volume.

The Contessa drew back and gave a little shout. And Tonio wasn’t surprised as his voice sounded immense and unnatural in this cluttered domestic room.

“Now,” she said, brushing aside the maids who hovered about with candles. And searching in the bedclothes produced a bound score. “You can sing this, beautiful child?” she asked. “Tonight, here?” She answered her own question with a little nod. “Here, with me?”

Tonio stared at the cover for a moment. He could not put all this together. Her voice, of course, he had heard of her voice, and over and over, she was a splendid amateur, but she never sang anymore and here, in this house, before hundreds of people, when Guido knew he didn’t want to do this! He turned to Guido.

Impatiently, Guido pointed to the music.

“Tonio, kindly wake from that dream in which you live out your life and look at what is in your hand,” he said. “You have an hour in which to prepare….”

“I won’t do it!” Tonio said furiously. “Contessa, I can’t do it. It’s impossible, I…”

“Darling child, you must do it,” she crooned. “You must do it for me. I have been through a terrible ordeal in Palermo. I so loved my cousin and he was such a fool, and his little wife, she suffered so and needlessly. There is but one thing which will gladden my spirits tonight, and that is to sing again, to sing Guido’s music, and to sing with you!”

He stared at her. He was scrutinizing her, sensing it was all lies, all a trick. Yet she seemed perfectly sincere. And without wanting to, he looked down at the score. It was Guido’s best
Serenade a duo, Venus and Adonis
, a lovely series of songs. And just for a second, he imagined himself singing it not just at practice with Piero, but here…

“No, it’s impossible, Contessa, ask anything else of me….”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Guido stepped in.

“But Guido, I’ve never rehearsed this for performance. Twice, maybe, I’ve sung it with Piero.” Then under his breath, “Guido, how could you do this to me!”

“Darling child,” said the Contessa, “there is a little parlor down the hall. Go and practice. Give yourself an hour. And don’t be angry with Guido. It is my request.”

“Don’t you realize this is an honor!” Guido said. “The Contessa’s to sing with you herself.”

Tricked, tricked, he was thinking. There would be three hundred people under this roof in an hour. And yet again he thought of the score. He knew the part of Adonis perfectly, its high sweet purity, and he could see the company overflowing downstairs. They were making it easy for him, weren’t they? They were sparing him the soul-searching and the long gathering of his strength. And he knew silently how it would be if he just let it happen, how the terror would be transformed into euphoria once he saw all those eyes on him, and once he knew there was simply no escape.

“Go now and practice.” Guido was shoving him towards the door. And then he whispered, “Tonio, how can
you
do this to
me!
”

Tonio made himself heavy, unyielding. But his face had taken on a blank, dreamy expression, he knew. He could feel himself softening, the battle being lost, and he knew, positively knew, this was the moment to move towards that strength he had wanted so much for himself when he heard Caffarelli tonight.

“You believe I can do it then?” He looked to Guido.

“Of course,” Guido said. “You sang it perfectly the first time I gave it to you, when the ink wasn’t even dry.” And now, with his back to the Contessa, he gave Tonio some wordless little assurance with his eyes, some quiet passage of affection, and then he whispered: “Tonio, this is the right time.”

This was the moment, there was no doubt about it, and he was too hungry for it to be frightened. He took a full hour and a half however before wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, blowing out the candles over the keyboard, and making his way to the top of the stairs.

Then just for an instant he was afraid. In fact, it was worse than that. He was terrified. Because it was that inevitable moment at such a gathering when every single invited guest is there. The early comers had not yet left; the latecomers had just arrived. The sheer volume of talk and laughter crashed gently against the very walls, and everywhere he looked there were men and women, iridescent silks and wigs as white as sails navigating this temptuous sea that flowed in and out of mirrors and yawning doors.

He rolled up the music, and without thinking another coherent thought started down the steps. But yet a greater shock came to him as he moved in towards the orchestra. Caffarelli himself had just come in, and was in the very act of kissing the Contessa’s hand.

Well, that was the end of it, surely, he felt. No one would expect him to sing in front of Caffarelli. Yet even as he was trying to decide if this was good or bad, Guido appeared.

“Do you need more time?” he asked immediately. “Are you ready now?”

“Guido, Caffarelli’s just come in,” he whispered. His hands felt clammy. He wanted to do it, and to get clean out of all this at the same time. No, he couldn’t sing in front of Caffarelli.

But Guido was sneering in the direction of the great castrato. Tonio glimpsed him for an instant as the crowd rolled back and then came together, and it seemed even here the man exuded some immense power as he had years ago on the Venetian stage. It seemed Tonio could hear him laughing.

“Now do as I tell you,” Guido said. “Let the Contessa set the pace. I will follow her and you do so as well.”

“But Guido—” Tonio started, and than it seemed he was powerless to speak. This was a mistake of incredible magnitude. But Guido was even now slipping away.

Maestro Cavalla had just appeared with Benedetto, and Guido, shifting back quickly to Tonio, said, “Go on to the harpsichord now, and wait.”

It seemed he did not know where to put his arms. He had the music in hand but how high should he hold it? Suddenly it dawned on him that this was the hostess herself singing and everyone would
have
to pay strict attention; what had Guido done! And there was the Maestro staring at him and of course
Benedetto was looking at him also, and someone had taken Caffarelli aside. Caffarelli was nodding, ooooh God! Why did Caffarelli have to be so damned gracious tonight when he was intolerable at other times! Why couldn’t he have threatened to storm out? Caffarelli’s eyes caught hold of Tonio, as they had three years ago for an instant in a Venetian drawing room.

But a hush was falling over the assemblage, and servants appeared from everywhere carrying little padded chairs. The ladies were taking their seats and the gentlemen filling up the doorways as if to cut off any possible escape.

The little Contessa’s small plump hand suddenly touched his wrist and he turned to see her with her hair powdered and daintily curled. She looked so very pretty. She rocked her head from side to side as she hummed the first few bars of her song which would open the serenade right after the introduction and then she winked.