Cry to Heaven (13 page)

But the summer was almost here. The heat was already stifling. The carnival would soon collapse like a house of cards, and then would begin the villeggiatura, with all the great families retiring to their villas on the Brenta River. No one wanted to be near the stench of the canals, the never-ending swarm of gnats.

And we’ll be here alone again, oh, noooo, please!

But when he could count the final days on one hand, Alessandro came to his room one morning with the servants who brought the chocolate and the coffee, and sat down by Tonio’s bed.

“Your father is very pleased with you,” he said. “All report to him you conduct yourself like the paragon of a gentleman.”

Tonio smiled. He wanted to see his father. But twice Signore Lemmo had told him it was quite out of the question. It seemed an uncommon number of people came and went from his apartments. And Tonio knew some of these men were attorneys, others old friends. He did not like it.

But what made him think that long night of intimacy would produce a new existence of frequent discussion? His father belonged to the state as surely now as ever. And if his ankle had failed to heal and he could not go out as he chose, then the state must come to him. And so it seemed to be happening.

But Alessandro had something else on his mind.

“Have you ever seen the Villa Lisani near Padua?” he asked.

Tonio held his breath.

“Well, pack everything. And if you have no riding clothes, send Giuseppe for the tailor. Your father wants you there for the whole summer, and your cousin is delighted to have you. But, Tonio,” he said (he’d long ago dropped the formal address at Tonio’s insistence), “think of some questions to ask your tutors. They feel superfluous; they’re afraid of being dismissed. And of course they won’t be. They’re coming with us. But you know, make them feel important.”

“We’re going to the Villa Lisani!” Tonio leapt up and threw his arms around Alessandro.

Alessandro had to take a step backwards, but his large languid hands moved gently over Tonio’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, “but I’m as excited as you are.”

A
FTER THE CUTS
in his wrists healed, Guido remained at the conservatorio where he had grown up, devoting himself to teaching with a rigor that few of his students could bear up under. He had genius, but not compassion.

And by the age of twenty, he had produced several remarkable pupils who went to sing in the Sistine Chapel.

They were castrati whose voices, without Guido’s training and instinct, might have amounted to nothing. And grateful as they were for the instruction which had elevated them, they were nevertheless terrified of the young maestro and glad to leave him.

In fact, all of Guido’s students at one time or another, if not always, hated him.

But the masters of the conservatorio loved him.

If it were humanly possible to “create” a voice where there had been none given by God, Guido could do it. And over and over again, they watched with amazement as he instilled musicianship where originality and talent were lacking.

To him they sent the dullards and those very pitiful little children who had been gelded long before their voices showed themselves to be nothing.

And Guido turned them out decent, skilled, and not unpleasing sopranos.

But Guido loathed these students. He took no enduring satisfaction whatsoever in their meager accomplishments. Music was infinitely more precious to him than himself, so pride was unknown to him.

And the pain and the monotony of his life pushed him deeper into his composition. This he’d neglected all the years he had dreamt of the singer’s life, and others had passed him by, having already seen their oratorios performed, and even their operas.

His masters didn’t look to him for anything here, but burdening him with students from dawn till dusk, reproved him for working alone so long into the night hours.

But doubt was no component of his pain. He was far behind in his skills. Yet he never wavered. Rather he went without sleep, working endlessly. Oratorios, cantatas, serenades, whole operas, were spinning out of him. And he knew that if he had but one great voice among his pupils, he might bargain for time, and writing for that voice, recapture the ears that were now deaf to him. That voice would be his inspiration, and the impetus he so needed. Then others would come, ready and willing to sing what he had written for them.

As it was, his miserable little singers struggled without comprehension or grace to deliver his songs to him.

But on long summer afternoons when he could no longer endure the sweltering cacophony of the practice rooms, he strapped on his sword, found his only decent pair of paste buckle shoes, and wandered out without explanation into the bustling city.

Few capitals in Europe seethed and crackled with as much humanity as did the great sprawling seaport of Naples.

Suffused with the pomp and glamour of the new Bourbon court, her streets veritably streamed with all manner of men come to see the magnificent shore, the splendid churches, castles, palaces, the dizzying beauty of the nearby countryside, the islands. And looming over all, the great hulk of Vesuvius against the misty sky, and the vast sea spreading to the horizon.

Gilded carriages roared and rattled through the streets, liveried
servants clinging to the painted doors, footmen racing.

Courtesans strolled the promenades, splendidly decked out in jewels and laces.

And up and down the gentle slopes, calashes plunged through the surging crowds, the one-horse drivers crying, “Make way for my lord,” and at every corner were the hawkers of fresh fruit and snow water.

Yet in this paradise where flowers bloomed in the cracks and vineyards spilled over the hillsides, poverty festered. The restless lazzaroni—peasants, idlers, thieves—roamed aimlessly about, mingling with the lawyers, clerks, lords and ladies, monks in their brown robes, or littered the steps of the cathedrals.

Pushed to and fro, Guido watched all with mute fascination. He felt the sea breeze. He was now and then almost struck by the wheels of a carriage.

Heavy of build, his shoulders massive under his black coat, breeches and stockings splashed and dusty, he did not appear the musician, the young composer, least of all the eunuch. Rather he was only another shabby gentleman, hands as clean as a nun’s, with money enough to drink in the wine gardens he entered.

There at a greasy table, he would rest his back against the mat of vines that covered the wall, vaguely sensible to the hum of the bees or the perfume of the blossoms. He listened to the mandolin of a strolling singer. And watching the sky melt softly from the blue of the sea to a rosy haze, he felt the wine lull his pain. And yet the wine allowed the pain to flower.

Tears wet his eyes, giving them a dangerous gleam. His soul ached, and his misery seemed unendurable.

But he did not fully understand the nature of it.

He knew only that as any singing master might, he wanted those passionate and gifted students to whom he might give the full weight of his genius. And he heard these singers—yet unknown—bring life to the arias he had written.

For it was they who must take his music to the stage and to the world, it was they who would realize for Guido Maffeo the only chance for immortality given him.

Yet it was unbearable loneliness he felt, too.

It was as if his own voice had been his lover, and his lover had forsaken him.

And envisioning the young man who could sing as he himself could no longer sing, that pupil to whom he could confide all that he knew, he saw the end of his isolation. He would have someone who understood him at last, someone who knew what he was doing! And all the distinctions between the needs of his soul and the needs of his heart were melted.

Stars dotted the sky, twinkling through the traces of cloud that were like the mist from the sea. And far, far away, lost in the darkness, the mountain gave off a sudden glimmer of lightning.

But the voices of promise were denied Guido. He was too young a maestro to attract them. The great singing teachers such as Porpora, who had been the teacher of Caffarelli and Farinelli, drew the great pupils.

And though his masters were pleased with the operas he penned, he continued to be lost in a swamp of competition. His compositions were “too peculiar,” it was said; then on the other hand, they were “uninspired imitation.”

The drudgery of his life threatened at times to break him. And he realized more clearly all the time that one sterling pupil would change everything.

But to draw the good students, Guido must first produce one luminary from the slush that was given him.

Time passed. It proved impossible. He was not an alchemist, merely a genius.

And at twenty-six, despairing of anything coming his way, he drew from his superiors a small allowance and their leave to go about Italy in search of new voices.

“Maybe he’ll find something.” Maestro Cavalla shrugged. “After all, look what he’s managed to do so far!” And sad to see him gone so long, they nevertheless gave him their blessing.

A
LL HIS LIFE
, Tonio had heard about it, this splendid summer interlude called the villeggiatura, with long suppers every night, rooms laid out in full silver plate and lace for each course, and leisurely excursions afterwards up and down the Brenta. There would be musicians coming and going all the time: maybe Tonio and Marianna would even play now and then, when the professionals weren’t about, and all the families would make up their own little orchestras, this man proficient on the violin, that one on the double bass, this senator as talented at the harpsichord as any paid performer. The girls from conservatorios would be invited out; and there would be the open air, picnics on the grass, riding horseback, fencing for sport, great spacious gardens hung with lanterns.

Tonio packed all the old music, wondering vaguely how it would feel to sing for a room full of people. And Marianna, with a nervous laugh, reminded him of his fears on her account (“My bad behavior!”). Nevertheless it startled him to see her roaming about her room in corset and chemise with Alessandro sitting by with a cup of chocolate.

But on the morning they were to leave, Signore Lemmo came pounding at Tonio’s door.

“Your father…” he stammered “Is he with you?”

“With me, why no. Whatever made you think he would be?” Tonio asked.

“I can’t find him,” Signore Lemmo whispered. “No one can find him.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Tonio said.

Yet within minutes Tonio realized the household was in a turmoil.

Everyone was engaged in the search. Marianna and Alessandro, who had been waiting with the trunks near the front door, rose immediately when he told them.

“Have you been in the archive downstairs?” Tonio demanded.

Signore Lemmo went there at once, only to report the lower floor was, as always, deserted.

“And the roof?” Tonio said. But this time he did not wait for anyone else; he had the strong feeling that was precisely where he might find his father. He did not know why, but all the way up the steps he was sure of it.

Yet when he came to the attic floor he stopped, because at the far end of the passage light streamed through an empty doorway. Tonio knew these rooms. He knew where all the servants slept, where Angelo and Beppo slept, and that room had always been bolted. As a little boy, he’d glimpsed furnishings through the keyhole. He’d tried the lock. But he’d never managed to get into it.

And now a dim suspicion came to him. He went quickly down the passage, vaguely conscious that Signore Lemmo followed him.

Andrea was in the room. He was standing at the front windows above the water, clad only in a flannel dressing gown. His shoulder bones poked through the flimsy cloth, and there came from him some low sound as though he were talking. Or praying.

But for a long moment Tonio waited, and his eyes passed over the walls, over the pictures and mirrors that still hung here. Long ago, it seemed, the roof had broken, and deep stains poured to the floor. There was everywhere the smell of mold and neglect; and he realized the bed was still covered by a damp and ruined coverlet. The curtains had never been removed; one panel had fallen away. And on a small table near a damask chair there stood a glass with a dark residue in it. A book lay open, face-down, and others on the shelves had swollen to burst their leather bindings.

No one had to tell him this was Carlo’s room. No one had to tell him it had been left hastily and never again entered.

With a shock, he saw the slippers by the bed. He saw the
candles in their holders eaten down by rats; and askew against a chest as if it had been tossed there stood a portrait. It was fixed in the familiar oval and square of gold that lined the galleria below and the Grand Salon from which it had obviously been taken.

And there was his brother’s face, more skillfully articulated than anywhere else, with those wide-set black eyes peering into this ruined chamber with perfect equanimity.

“Wait outside,” Tonio said softly to Signore Lemmo.

The window was wide open over a vista of red-tiled roofs, slanting this way and that, cut here and there by little gardens and steeples, and the distant domes of San Marco.

There came a whistling sound from Andrea’s lips. Tonio felt a sharp pain in his temples.

“Father?” he said as he drew close.

Andrea’s head turned unwillingly. The hazel eyes showed no recognition. The face was more gaunt than ever and possessed the shimmer of a fever. Those eyes, ever so quick, if not severe, were vague as if covered with a blinding film.

Then slowly Andrea’s face brightened. “I mean…I mean, I detest it….” he whispered.

“What, Father?” Tonio asked. He was terrified. Something was happening, something dreadful.

“The carnival, the carnival,” Andrea stammered, his lips trembling. He rested his hand on Tonio’s shoulder, “I am…I am…I must…”

“Father, will you come down?” Tonio said tentatively.