Cry to Heaven (39 page)

The heavy bed with its coffered roof was fitted with plain dark curtains for winter, and Tonio climbed up on the coverlet, resting against the paneled headboard as Guido lit the candles on the harpsichord, which meant that love would not come so soon.

In a small voice Tonio asked:

“How tall will I grow?”

“No one knows that. It depends on how tall you might have been. But you are growing fast.”

Tonio felt a black water coming up in his mouth as though he were going to be sick. It was now or never that he ask these questions, and for so long he had wanted merely to voice them if even to the roaring sea.

“What else is happening to me?”

Guido turned. Tonio wondered, did he remember that night in Rome, in that small garden, when Tonio, choking for breath, actually choking as if he were dying, had stretched out his hands to him, to that statue which glowed in the moonlight with a white light of its own.

“What’s happening to me!” he whispered. “All over. You know.”

How indifferent Guido seemed. His dark figure came between Tonio and the candles so that it lost its face.

“You will continue to grow tall. Your arms and legs will increase in length, but how much, again, no one knows. But remember they will always seem normal to you. And it is this flexibility of bone which gives you such power with your voice. Every day that you practice you increase the size of your lungs; and the elastic bones let those lungs grow. So that very soon you will have power in the upper register that no woman could ever possess. No boy, for that matter. No other man.

“But your hands will hang low on your body, and your feet will flatten out. And you will be weak in the arms as a woman is weak. You will not have the natural muscularity of a man.”

Tonio’s turning away from this was so violent that Guido took hold of him.

“Forget these things!” Guido said. “Yes, yes, I mean what I say. Forget these things. For every time you feel pain over them, it means you have not accepted what can never be changed! Realize where your strength lies.”

Tonio nodded, full of bitterness and mockery. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“Now, I have one more lesson for you,” Guido said. “And you need it most of all.”

Tonio nodded with a little smile. “Teach me,” he said.

“You’ve turned away from women, and that’s not a good thing.”

Tonio was incensed. He was about to protest, and Guido kissed him roughly on the forehead.

“In Venice, you had a little girl. You’d go off with her in the gondola when the singers had gone home. I used to watch you. It happened night after night.”

“Those things are best forgotten, too.” Tonio smiled again, feeling the coldness of it suffusing his face.

“No, not so. Don’t ever forget it. Cherish the memory of it, and whenever the fire gets hold of you, no matter when, no matter where, if there is some safe opportunity for reenacting that ritual, then you must reenact it again. And if the fire takes hold of you with men, with other eunuchs, whoever it is, seize it, don’t waste it, don’t let it go. Do all of it with honor and common sense, but don’t turn your back on it, not out of love for me, not out of love for music, not out of indifference, but hearken to your desires again and again.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because you never know when that desire will go away. Men never lose it. That is not always the case with us.”

“You! You have no fear of losing it!” Tonio said.

“No. Not now. But I had all but lost it, until we were brought together. It was in the town of Ferrara when I saw you lying on that bed, feverish and in need of care, that it came back.” Guido paused. “I thought it had left me with my voice.”

Tonio stared at Guido without saying a word. He appeared to weigh all this, but now Guido realized that he should never have mentioned that time, nor that place.

Tonio’s face had become white and elongated, and it seemed
he was not himself but some bitter and frightening image of himself.

Yet he reached for Guido’s hand and drew him close.

Hours later, Tonio awoke with a start. He had been dreaming the most terrible dream of all of them, the dream of real things and real men, and that struggle that had ended in irrevocable defeat.

Sitting up in the dark he felt the peace and safety of this room surround him, laced as it was with bitterness and grief. And he realized that for a long time he had been hearing music, full of starts and stops, and then a solemn, sacred-sounding melody that was proceeding inch by inch.

Across the dim vista of the darkened room, he saw Guido at the harpsichord, his candles a handful of tongues that were solid and still in the air, Guido’s scowling face beneath them seen as if through a dusky veil.

The sharp, distinct smell of the ink reached him, and then he heard the scratch of Guido’s pen. Once again, Guido played that melody, and for the first time, Tonio heard Guido’s own voice, low, almost empty of sound, like a man whispering a melody he cannot sing.

Tonio felt such love for him then he knew that as he lay back on the pillow he was fixing this moment in time. He would never forget it.

When morning came Guido told him that he had greatly enlarged the solo he was to sing on Christmas Eve. In fact he had written an entire cantata, and now he must get Maestro Cavalla to approve it so it could be performed.

It was noon before he returned to the practice room to say the Maestro, who had spent so much time this year with Domenico, was quite delighted with what Guido had done. Tonio would sing it. Now they must perfect it together. There was no time to lose.

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
, the chapel of the conservatorio was crowded to overflowing.

The air was chill and clean and Tonio had spent the early evening roaming the city to see all around him those life-sized
presepi
or cribs which the people of Naples so love, families handing down the statues from generation to generation. On rooftops, on porches, in convent gardens, everywhere, these splendid Nativity scenes unfolded with magnificent images of the Virgin, Saint Joseph, shepherds, and angels awaiting the Infant Savior.

Never before had the pure meaning of this night been so palpable to Tonio. Since he had left the Veneto, he had found no faith in himself, no grace. Yet it seemed on this night the world would and could renew itself. Some ancient power lay behind the ritual, the hymns, these glorious images. And he could feel a quickening in him as midnight approached. Christ was coming into the world. The light would shine in the darkness. It had an eerie and heartrending power.

But when he came downstairs in his black uniform, the famous red sash tied neatly in place, he felt the first trepidation for his performance, and knowing the effect of worry on the voice itself, was doubly stricken.

Suddenly he couldn’t remember a single word of Guido’s cantata, or the melody. He reminded himself it was an extraordinary composition, that Guido was already proceeding to the harpsichord to conduct, and that he had the score in his hand, so it didn’t matter if he couldn’t remember. Then he almost smiled.

What a gift this was. If he weren’t terrified for his performance, what would he be feeling? The chorus of geldings will now raise its voice to heaven!

But he was terrified, just like any other singer. And in a moment, just as Guido had told him, he would become calm, he would hear the opening bars, everything would be perfect.

Yet as he moved along the side wall and down through the assembled boys to the front rail, he saw in the very first row of the congregation beneath him the small blond head of a young woman. She was bent over her programme, her dark taffeta dress forming a circle around her.

He looked away at once. Impossible that it be she, on this night of all nights! But as if some grim hand, some bullying brutal hand were forcing him to it, he looked down again at her. He saw the delicate wisps all about her soft curls, and then slowly she raised her eyes, and for an instant they looked at one another.

Surely she remembered those awkward moments in the Contessa’s supper room, his drunken recklessness, which he himself would never forget. Yet there was no malice in her expression. It was musing, almost dreamy.

A bitterness welled up in him, poisoning him, poisoning all the beguiling beauty of this place, the sanctuary with its rows of lights, its great masses of fragrant flowers.

He attempted to steady himself. It was she who had looked away first, her small hands folding that rustling paper in her lap, and then he felt himself grow tense, only to weaken slowly and completely. He had the impression of the pain positively washing through him like water.

Only the idea that he was trapped was real to him. And that the congregation had stopped its low murmuring, and that Guido had seated himself at the keyboard. The little orchestra was lifting its instruments. The thought came clearly to him. “I cannot do it.” The music was nothing but a series of inscrutable marks. And then came the opening blasts of the trumpet.

He looked out over the open space before him. He started singing.

The notes climbed, they plunged down and rose up again, the words interwound effortlessly, the scroll of music closed shut in his hands. And quite suddenly, he knew it was all right.
He was not lost in it; rather it was coming strongly and beautifully and he felt the first quiet rush of pride.

When it all came to an end, he knew it had been a little triumph.

The audience, not allowed to applaud, was shuffling, coughing, moving its feet, all subtle signals of unbounded approval. And Tonio could see it in the faces everywhere. As he followed the other castrati out of the chapel, he wanted only to be alone with Guido. That need was so great in him, he could hardly endure the congratulations, the warm hand clasps, Francesco murmuring to him that Domenico would have been sick with jealousy.

When Guido took hold of him that would be praise enough, the rest he knew, and he was exhausted.

Yet he returned quite deliberately to the stream of those leaving the chapel, and when that young blond-haired girl emerged, as he knew she would, he felt his face grown warm.

The reality of her was so startling. In his memory she had paled, grown insignificant, and now here she was, her golden hair tumbled softly about her rounded neck, and her eyes, so infinitely serious, were a glimmer of dark blue. She wore a bit of violet ribbon at her throat which gave its color to her small mouth. Slightly pouted, succulent, it made him almost feel its fullness, as if he had pressed his thumb to her lips just before he had kissed her, and flustered, miserable, he looked away.

An elderly gentleman accompanied her. Who was that, her father? And why hadn’t she told him of that little incident in the supper room? Why hadn’t she cried out?

She was directly in front of him now, and as he looked up, he looked into her eyes.

Without hesitating, he made her a correct bow. And then almost angrily, again he looked away. He felt himself strong and quieted and aware for the first time perhaps that of all the painful emotions of life, only sadness has such an exquisite luster. Now she was gone.

The Maestro di Cappella had come forward and was clasping his hands:

“Quite remarkable,” he said. “And I had thought you were moving too fast.”

Then Tonio saw Guido, and Guido’s happiness was so palpable
that Tonio felt a small catch in his throat. The Contessa Lamberti was embracing him. As soon as she had gone away, he turned to Tonio and, gently ushering him down the corridor, seemed on the verge of kissing him when he thought the better of it, wisely.

“What in the world happened to you up there! I thought you weren’t going to start. You terrified me.”

“But I did start, perfectly in time,” Tonio said. “Don’t be angry.”

“Angry?” Guido laughed. “Do I seem angry?” He embraced Tonio impulsively and then let him go. “You were perfect,” he whispered.

The last of the guests were gone, and the front doors were being closed, and the Maestro di Cappella was in deep conversation with a gentleman who had his back turned.

Guido had unlocked his door, but Tonio knew he would not retire without hearing what the Maestro had to say.

But as the Maestro turned and guided his guest towards them, Tonio experienced a quiet shock. This was a Venetian, he realized at once, though how he knew he could not have said.

And then, when it was too late to turn away, he saw that this blond, heavily built young man was Giacomo Lisani, Catrina’s eldest son.

Catrina had betrayed him! She had not come herself, but she had sent this one! And though he wanted to escape, he realized immediately that Giacomo appeared as miserable as he was. Giacomo’s cheeks were aflame, and his pale blue eyes downcast.

And how he had changed from the awkward colt whom Tonio had known in Venice, that impetuous student from the University at Padua who was forever whispering and laughing with his brother, with an elbow in the ribs.

The shadow of a beard darkened his face and neck ever so slightly, and it seemed a sense of duty weighed upon him as he made Tonio a deep, almost ceremonial bow.

The Maestro was presenting him. It was impossible to avoid this. Then Giacomo looked directly to Tonio, and as quickly he looked away.

Is it revulsion? Tonio thought coldly. Am I loathsome to him? But all consideration of himself and how he must appear
to his cousin were slowly alchemized in a silent animosity that was the enemy of reason, while at the same time he felt a fascination with the workings of nature in Giacomo, workings he would never see in so many of the students who were his only real kin now.

“Marc Antonio,” Giacomo began. “I’ve been sent by your brother, Carlo, to see you.”

The Maestro was gone. Guido, too, had moved away, but he lingered just behind the young man, his eyes fixed on Tonio.

And Tonio, hearing for the first time in so long the beautiful Venetian dialect, had to disentangle the meaning of Giacomo’s words from the deep masculine timbre that seemed almost magical to him in this moment. How exquisite was that dialect, how like the gilt everywhere on the walls here, on the curlicues and the columns, on the painted doors. Giacomo’s heavy, languid voice seemed composed of a dozen harmonious sounds, and each resonant word was touching Tonio like a child’s soft fist pressed to Tonio’s throat.