Cry to Heaven (12 page)

Andrea’s words came back to Tonio in a confusion, something about the world, being tested by the world. The world…But he could keep his mind on nothing now but Caffarelli. He was going to hear a great castrato for the first time in his life, and all else could wait, for all he cared, and it was beyond him anyway.

“They say he’ll fight with everyone before he’s finished, and if the prima donna’s pretty he won’t leave her alone for a second. Alessandro, is it all true?”

“Signora, you know a great deal more than I do,” Alessandro laughed.

“Well, I’ll give him five minutes,” said Vincenzo, “and if he hasn’t captured my heart or my ear, I’m off to the San Moise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone is here tonight,” said Catrina. “This is the place, and besides, it’s raining.”

Tonio turned his chair around, straddling it, as he looked at the distant curtained stage. He could hear his mother laughing. The old senator had said they should all go home and hear her sing a little song with Tonio. Then he could have his supper. “You will sing for me soon, my dear, won’t you?”

“Sometimes I think I married a stomach,” said Catrina. “Bet your clothes piece by piece, then,” she said to Vincenzo. “Start with that vest; no, the shirt. I like the shirt.”

Meantime a fight had broken out in the rear of the house below. There was shouting and stomping, and quickly everything was restored to order. Beautiful girls moved through the chairs hawking wine and other refreshments.

Alessandro rose up against the wall of the box like a shadow behind Tonio.

And just then the musicians began to appear, slipping into their padded chairs with a great fidgeting of lamps and rustling of papers. In fact, librettos were being thumbed everywhere; there had been a brisk sale of them in the lobby.

And when the young unknown composer of the opera
stepped to the front, there were loyal cheers from up above and a rash of clapping.

It seemed the lights dimmed, but not enough. Tonio rested his chin on his hands against the back of the chair. The composer’s wig didn’t fit and neither did his heavy brocade coat and he was miserably nervous.

Alessandro made a disapproving sound.

The composer flopped awkwardly at the harpsichord. The musicians raised their bows, and suddenly the house was filled with a rush of festive music.

It was lovely, light, full of celebration with nothing of tragedy or foreboding, and Tonio felt an immediate enchantment. He bent forward as the crowd chattered and laughed behind him. Just where the balcony curved, the Lemmo family was already at dinner, steam rising from the silver plates before them. An angry Englishman hissed in vain for silence.

But when the curtain rose there were oooh’s and aaah’s from everywhere. Gilded porticoes and arches rose against an infinite backdrop of blue sky in which the stars twinkled magically. Clouds passed over the stars, and the music, rising in the sudden silence, seemed to reach the rafters. The composer was pounding away, his powdered curls flopping all of a piece, as grandly dressed women and men appeared on the stage to engage in the stiff but necessary recitative that began the opera’s all too familiar and utterly preposterous story. Someone was in disguise, someone else kidnapped, abused. Someone would go mad. There would be a battle with a bear and a sea monster before the heroine found her way back to her husband who thought she was dead, and someone’s twin brother would be blessed by the gods for vanquishing the enemy.

Tonio would memorize the libretto later. He didn’t care right now. What maddened him was his mother’s laughter and the sudden cries of the Lemmo family, who had just been presented with an elaborate broiled fish.

“Excuse me.” He pushed past Alessandro.

“But where are you going?” Alessandro’s large hand folded easily and warmly over Tonio’s wrist.

“Downstairs, I must hear Caffarelli. Stay with my mother, don’t let her out of your sight.”

“But, Excellency…”

“Tonio.” Tonio smiled. “Alessandro, I beg you, I swear on
my honor, I will go no farther than the parterre, you can see me from here. I must hear Caffarelli!”

Not all of the chairs were taken. Midway through the performance many more gondoliers would come, admitted free, and then it would be mayhem. But now he was easily able to get close to the stage, pushing through the rougher, cruder crowd until he sat only a few feet from the raging, storming orchestra.

Now all he could hear was the music and he was ecstatic.

And at that moment there appeared on the stage the tall, stately figure of the great Caffarelli.

This pupil of Porpora was definitely claimed by some to be the greatest singer in the world, and as he advanced to the footlights in his enormous white wig and flowing carmine cape, he appeared a god rather than the great king whose part he played in the performance. Delicately handsome, he allowed all eyes to drink him in. Then he threw back his head. He commenced to sing, and at the first immense swelling note the theater fell silent.

Tonio gasped. The gondoliers beside him let out soft moans and cries of pleasant astonishment.

The note swelled and soared as if even the castrato himself could not stop it And then bringing it to a close, he rushed into the body of the aria, without seeming to pause for breath as the orchestra raced to catch up with him.

It was a voice beyond belief, not shrill but somehow violent. In fact, the castrato’s almost exquisite face seemed quite disfigured with rage before he had finished.

It was a face that had been painted, powdered, rendered as civilized as anyone could imagine in its frame of white curls and yet those eyes smoldered as he strode back and forth now, bowing indifferently to those who waved and clapped and nodded from the boxes, glancing to the pit, and now and then to the higher tiers as if with some remote calculations.

But the prima donna had commenced to sing, and it seemed the opera was falling apart around her. Or was it simply that now Tonio could see all the commotion in the wings, ladies with brushes and combs, a servant who darted out now to puff more white powder on Caffarelli.

Yet the prima donna’s thin little voice continued bravely
over the continuo of the composer at the harpsichord. And Caffarelli stood in front of her, his back to her, as if she didn’t exist, affected a yawn in fact, and the hum of conversation rose again, a dull wave taking the edges off the music.

Meanwhile around Tonio all the real judges of the performance gave off their coarsely stated but very shrewd estimations. Caffarelli’s high notes weren’t so good tonight; the prima donna was dreadful. A girl offered Tonio a cup of red wine, and feeling for his coins, he glanced at her masked face and thought surely this was Bettina! But when he thought of his father, and the trust he’d been so lately given, he dropped his eyes, flushing deeply.

Caffarelli again stepped to the footlights. He tossed back the red cape. He was glaring at the first tier. And then came that magnificent first note again, swelling, throbbing. Tonio could see the sweat glistening on his face, his immense chest expanding beneath the glittering metal of his Grecian armor. The harpsichord faltered. There was confusion in the strings.

Caffarelli was not singing the right music. But he was singing something that sounded immediately familiar. Suddenly Tonio realized—just as everyone did—that he was recreating the prima donna’s aria which had just finished, and making merciless fun of her. The strings tried to fall in, the composer was dumbfounded. Meantime Caffarelli crooned the notes, he ran up and down her trills with such appalling ease that he made her gifts utterly meaningless.

Mocking her long swelling notes, he pushed with monstrous power into the ridiculous. The girl had burst into tears but she did not leave the stage, and the other players were crimson with confusion.

Hisses sounded from the gallery, then shouts and catcalls from everywhere. The lady’s supporters began to stomp their feet, shaking their fists wildly, but the supporters of the castrato were rocking with laughter.

At last having the full attention of every man, woman, and child in the house, Caffarelli ended this burlesque with a flat and nasal parody of the prima donna’s tender little close, and commenced his own
aria di bravura
with a volume that was annihilating.

Tonio slumped in his chair, a smile spreading over his face.

So this was it, and it was all that everyone had ever said it
would be, a human instrument so powerful and perfectly tuned that it rendered all else feeble in comparison.

Applause rang out from every recess of the house as the singer finished. Bravos roared from top to bottom. The loyal champions of the girl attempted to combat the swell but it soon vanquished them all.

And all around Tonio, there rose those hoarse and violent cries of praise:

“
Evviva il coltello!
”

Evviva il coltello
, he was shouting it too. “Long live the knife” that had made this man into a castrato, carving out the manhood so as to preserve forever this glorious soprano.

He was dazed afterwards; it hardly mattered that Marianna was too tired to go to the Palazzo Lisani. Let these splendors come one at a time. This night would live in him forever; his head would teem with Caffarelli in his dreams.

And it would have been perfect, all of it were it not for the fact that just as they were pushing their way through the doors, he had heard behind him the words, “…just like Carlo,” spoken crisply and clearly at his ear. He turned; he saw too many faces, and then he realized it was Catrina talking to the old senator, who said now, “Yes, yes, my dear nephew, just saying you look so much like your brother.”

E
VERY NIGHT
for the remainder of the carnival Tonio went back to see Caffarelli to the exclusion of every other temptation.

One opera played each house in Venice over and over for
the entire season, but nothing could lure him off to witness even a part of the performances elsewhere. And the bulk of society returned here again and again, to witness the same witchcraft that held Tonio captive.

No aria was ever performed by Caffarelli in exactly the same way twice, and his boredom between these sterling moments seemed something more desperate than a mere pose to irritate others.

There was a dark quality to his eternal restlessness. A despair underlay his continuous invention.

And over and over by sheer personal power, he created this miracle:

He stepped to the footlights, he threw out his arms, he took over the house, and murdering the score of the composer, confounding the players who hastened after him, he created, alone and without the help of anyone, a music that was in fact the heart and soul of the opera.

And damn him as they might, all knew that without him it might have come to nothing.

The composer was often frantic when the final curtain came down. And Tonio often hung in the shadows to hear him cursing, “You don’t sing what I’ve written, you pay no attention to what I’ve written.”

“Then write what I sing!” snarled the Neapolitan. And once Caffarelli drew his sword and actually chased the composer towards the doors.

“Stop him, stop him or I’ll kill him!” shouted the composer, running backwards up the aisle. But everyone could see he was terrified.

Caffarelli howled with contemptuous laughter.

He was a vision of outrage as he pushed the tip of his rapier into the composer’s buttons, nothing but his beardless face marking him the eunuch.

But all knew, even the young man, that Caffarelli made the opera what it was.

Caffarelli pursued women all over Venice. He drifted in and out of the Palazzo Lisani at all hours to chat with the patricians who hastened to pour him wine or fetch him a chair, and Tonio, ever near, worshiped him. He smiled to see the flush in his mother’s cheeks as she too followed Caffarelli with her eyes.

But then she was having such a marvelous time, he loved to watch her, too. No longer keeping to the corners, her eyes sharp with suspicion, she was now even dancing with Alessandro.

And Tonio, taking his own position in the majestic chain of brilliantly dressed men and women that spanned the Grand Salon of the Casa Lisani, went through the precise steps of the minuets, thrilled by the vision of ruffled breasts, exquisite arms, cheeks that looked as soft as kittens’ fur. Glasses of champagne on silver trays sailed through the air.

French wine, French perfume, French fashion.

Of course everyone adored Alessandro. He seemed simplicity itself in his fine clothes, and yet so grand and so full of grace that Tonio felt an immense love for him.

Late at night they talked together alone.

“I fear you’ll find our house dreary after a while,” Tonio had said once.

“Excellency!” Alessandro laughed. “I did not grow up in a magnificent palazzo.” His eyes had swept the lofty ceilings of his new room, the heavy green curtains of the bed, the carved desk, and the new harpsichord. “Perhaps if I’m here a hundred years, I will begin to find it dreary.”

“I want you here forever, Alessandro,” Tonio had said.

And in a quiet moment he had some inarticulate and wondrous sense of how this man, beneath all the hammered gold of San Marco, had spent his life striving for perfection. No wonder he possessed such unobtrusive seriousness, such soft sureness of self; he reflected the wealth and breeding and beauty that had always surrounded him.

Why shouldn’t he move through Catrina’s salon with an easy elegance?

But what did they really think of him, Tonio wondered. What did they think of Caffarelli? And why was it so tantalizing for Tonio to conceive of Caffarelli in bed with any of the women who hung about him? It seemed he need only beckon in order to be followed.

But it was fast occurring to Tonio, What would I do with any of them, because there were quite enough who gave inviting looks to him over their lace fans. And in the pit of the theater he’d smelled the sweet aroma of a thousand Bettinas.

Time, Tonio, time, he said to himself. He would have died
before he would have failed his father. All before him flashed and glimmered in the magic light of new responsibility and new knowledge. And at night, he knelt down before the Madonna in his room and prayed: “Please, please, don’t let it all come to an end. Let it go on forever.”