Cry to Heaven (43 page)

“Enough for me? You are the world to me,” Guido said softly.

“But you won’t give her up….”

Guido said nothing.

It was no use talking any more; he knew the answers would be the same, and that this abyss could open under him, that this misery could come, drawing him back to his other earlier hurts, was stunning him. This pain seemed unendurable. It resonated with every fiber of his being, and it seemed the small world he had made for himself in this place teetered, threatened to crumble. What did it matter that he had once known worse pain? It was unreal to him, it was this moment that was real now.

He wanted to get up, to go away. He never wanted to see Guido again, nor the Contessa, nor anyone here, and yet this was unthinkable.

“I loved you….” he whispered. “There was no one for me but you. There was no one else ever.”

“You love me now, and there is no one else for me but you,” Guido answered. “You know that.”

“Don’t say any more. Just leave it. It only gets worse the more you say. It’s over.”

But as soon as he had spoken those words, he knew Guido was moving towards him.

And just when he thought surely he would strike Guido, he felt himself turning to him. It was almost as if in his misery, he could not resist Guido. Guido could yet protect him even from Guido’s cruelty. And when Guido whispered again, “You are my life,” it was tortured and hungry, and Tonio gave himself over to him.

Guido’s kisses were slow and savoring. It seemed passion came in such clear waves, carrying Tonio up, only to slacken ever so slightly, just before swelling again.

But when it was finished and they lay close, intertwined, Tonio whispered in Guido’s ear, “Show me how to understand this. How could you wound me and feel nothing? I would not for all the world have wounded you so, I swear it.”

He thought he saw Guido smile in the dark. But it was not an ugly smile. Rather it was sad and his sigh seemed to come from the weight of some old knowledge.

There was in his embrace then a desperation, and as he folded Tonio yet closer to his chest, he held him as if someone else meant to take him.

“In time, beautiful one, you will,” he said. “And for now, show me this gentle generosity.”

Tonio’s eyes were closing. He wanted to deny it, but it seemed even as he slipped reluctantly into his dreams that a vast part of this puzzle was missing and he had only just seen the size of it. There were fears stirring in him, fears he could not voice, and he knew for this moment Guido loved him and he loved Guido and if he were to press for the missing part of that puzzle, misery might overwhelm him again.

He accepted it. He felt helpless, but he accepted it. And in the days that followed he understood this had been wise, for Guido was more surely his than ever before.

Yet one bitter lesson had been learned by Tonio: it was not Guido who kept him from the blond-haired girl. Tonio’s guilt in the chapel that night for so much as glimpsing her paintings mocked him in memory, because he knew now he might approach her without so much as an explanation to Guido, and
yet he could not bring himself to do it, falling silent and miserable every time she crossed his path.

But his love for Guido filled him and quieted him in the months to come. It seemed at times he was tantalized by the knowledge that Guido had his Contessa. And from Guido he received an even greater measure of tenderness and submission, perhaps because Guido was at last receiving the recognition as a composer he had craved for so long.

As the warmer months came on again, with all their inevitable festivals and processions—and occasional excursions with Paolo into the countryside—it was clear that Guido was much in demand.

Advanced composition students were given to him; the beginners were taken away; and with Tonio as his star pupil, and Paolo surprising everyone, he was attracting more excellent singers than he could accept.

He was placed in almost complete control of the school theater, and though he drove everyone mercilessly, Tonio found him all the more alluring for it, and most impressive in the fine clothes that Tonio’s purse supplied.

Yet Guido’s face softened somewhat with authority; he was less angry all the time. And he had about him a more casual air of command which caused Tonio to feel a secret and debilitating pleasure at the mere brush of Guido’s hand.

Maestro Cavalla cautioned Guido not to push Tonio. Yet it was through performance that Guido’s real work with Tonio had begun.

Before the lights, he could better examine Tonio’s weaknesses and strength. And though he drilled Tonio relentlessly with his exercises, and wrote for him a variety of arias, Guido could see it was with the
aria cantabile
—the aria of sadness and tender feeling—that Tonio excelled. Benedetto was good at tricks; he could do acrobatics with his high notes, only to plunge into the contralto range with disturbing ease. It had the audience gasping, but it didn’t make them weep.

And that Tonio could do, without fail, every time he sang.

Meanwhile the Bourbon King Charles III, who had been ruling Naples for two years now, decided to build his Teatro San
Carlos, and within a matter of months it was completed and the old San Bartolommeo was pulled down.

But though everyone marveled at the speed with which the house had been erected, on opening night it was the interior which drew the gasps of admiration and awe.

The San Bartolommeo had been an old rectangular house. This was a horseshoe with six tiers. But the marvel was not its impressive size so much as the way it was so lavishly lighted, each box being fixed with a mirror on the front and a candle on either side. When the candles were lighted, the minors amplified the tiny flames a thousandfold in all directions; it was an unbelievable spectacle dimmed only by the talent of the prima donna Anna Peruzzi, and her rival, the contralto Vittoria Tesi, who was renowned for her skill in male roles. The opera,
Achille en Sciro
, was from the recent libretto by Metastasio, with music by Domenico Sarri, whom the Neapolitans had loved for many years.

One of the greatest scene designers of the time, Pietro Righini, had been employed for the stage, and the whole was a magnificent production indeed.

Guido and Tonio had places in the front of the parterre, enormous seats with arm rests, which could be locked by the season subscriber when not in use. No one could take your place, then. It was there for you no matter how late you might come; and the rows were so broadly spaced, a man might walk to his seat without disturbing anyone else.

Of course everyone knew the monarch didn’t care for opera; they laughed that he built such a spacious theater so he might place himself as far as possible from the stage.

But the eyes of Europe were more than ever turned to Naples. Her singers, her composers, her music had fully superseded those of Venice. And they had long ago eclipsed those of Rome.

Rome however was still the place for a castrato’s debut, as far as Guido was concerned. Rome might not be producing singers and composers, but Rome was Rome. And Guido reminded Tonio of this all the time.

Tonio’s progress amazed everyone. And though he had sung four arias in the fall opera at the conservatorio and spent his
evenings out with Guido, he still took some meals with his fellow students, spent his afternoon recreation with them, and worked with them at all the menial tasks assigned to him backstage.

But some time after his second Christmas in Naples, Tonio had a clash with another fencing student which proved as dangerous as his struggle with Lorenzo the year before.

It happened on a day when Tonio’s mind was heavy, and he moved through the world with an unusual sluggishness and indifference to all he heard and saw.

That morning one of Catrina Lisani’s letters had informed him his mother had given birth to a healthy son. Five months ago, the baby had been delivered; he had been in this world almost half a year.

A debilitating languor came over Tonio, and he had found himself lost in an inaudible little prayer. May you be sound of limb and quick of wit, he was almost whispering. May you receive every blessing from God and from men. Were I at your christening, I would kiss your tender little forehead myself.

And an image drifted into his mind, of itself, it seemed, so that he saw his figure, tall and white, this spider of a creature he had become, moving through those dank and moldering rooms. He saw an endless arm outstretched to rock the infant’s cradle. And he saw his mother weeping alone.

Why was she weeping? His thoughts collected themselves slowly and he realized she was weeping because he had slain her husband. Carlo was dead. And she was in mourning again and all those brilliantly imagined candles had gone out. Little bits of smoke rose from the wicks. And up and down those halls, the stench from the canal moved as if it were thick and palpable as the winter mist.

“Ah,” he had spoken aloud finally, folding the stiff parchment sheet of paper, “what did you want? A little more time?”

Another step had been taken; another step. Catrina’s letter said Marianna was once again, already, with child!

So when he arrived at the fencing salon, he had stupidly pushed ahead of a young Tuscan from Siena as he went through the door. Carelessness, that was all.

But as he prepared for his first bout, he could not help hearing a snarl behind him, and raising his eyes, he felt that odd sense of disorientation that had come over him in the Piazza San Marco when he had first heard of Carlo years before. He stood still; it seemed for a terrifying instant he was slipping into dream. And then he clung to the vision of the polished floor in front of him, the high windows, the long and barren room. The words penetrated: “A eunuch? I never knew capons were permitted to carry swords.” Nothing unexpected, nothing very clever, and he saw capons, those emasculated birds, plucked and ready for eating, dangling from the butcher’s hook. He saw the mirrors of the fencing salon all around him and reflected in them the young men in their dark breeches and white shirts standing about.

And he realized the room had fallen silent, and that he himself was turning slowly around.

The young Tuscan was staring at him. Yet the features made no impression; and it seemed he was hearing a multitude of whispers, echoes of whispers, rising from all those in this room, all those of this great ilk of young manhood with whom he had vied and struggled here and won. He was standing very still, with narrowed eyes, waiting for the whispers to shape themselves into words he could understand.

But he became vaguely sensible that the young Tuscan was unnerved. The others were uneasy, and then he positively felt the current of wariness circling the room. He could see the blank, almost sullen faces of these southern Italian men; he could smell their sweat.

And then he sensed the young Tuscan’s fear. He saw it cresting in panic, and with it a desperate and self-destructive pride.

“I don’t cross swords with capons!” the boy shouted almost shrilly, and even these shrewd southern Italians evinced their slight shock.

A strange thought came to Tonio then. He saw the stupidity of this boy. He saw that this boy would rather die than lose face in this small crowd. There was no doubt in Tonio’s mind he could kill him. No one here knew the art of the sword as well as he. And even as he felt his own height, his own metallic anger, he felt the meaninglessness of this act. He didn’t want to kill this young man. He didn’t want for him to die. Yet
a man should want to kill him; a man should understand that his insult was not to be borne.

It baffled him; it weighed on him. And the boy was giving him such a rich opportunity! He felt sorrow for the boy. Yet if he let this dilemma grow in him it would weaken him.

And he saw himself as from a great distance narrowing his eyes as he glared at the other and slowly lifted his sword.

The Tuscan drew his rapier; it gave a loud zing as it came loose and flew out at Tonio in the air. His mouth was twisted with fear and anger, and Tonio immediately parried, and tore open the boy’s throat.

The boy dropped his blade, gasping, both hands flying to the wound.

And then all the room came to life quickly and silently, with a handful of young men rallying to Tonio to urge him to back off. He saw others surrounding the Tuscan; he saw the blood drenching the boy’s shirt. The fencing master was insisting they set a time and place outdoors.

All the way back to the conservatorio Tonio was visited by flashes of those confused moments, of those young men surrounding him, of the informal and friendly touch of their hands.

Before midnight, a young Sicilian nobleman came to tell him that the boy had packed up and fled. There was a contemptuous sneer on the swarthy young man’s face as he revealed this, without any other comment. And then hesitating in the stiffly decorated parlor of the conservatorio where he had been received, he asked Tonio to hunt with him some time soon. He and his friends went regularly into the mountains. They should welcome his company. Tonio thanked him for the invitation, without ever saying that he would accept.

And only a few days later Guido and Tonio went into the mountains south.

The weather was mild, and together they sought out one of those seaside towns that clung to the sheer cliffs above a water so purely blue and still it seemed the flawless mirror of heaven.

They dined on simple food in a little white piazza, and then summoned a band of rustic singers, shabby but spirited, who
sang them barbarous and inventive melodies no trained musician would possibly attempt.

The night they spent in an inn, on a bed of straw, the window open to the sky.

And the next morning Tonio went out early, wandering alone into a great grassy place, sprinkled everywhere with the first spring wildflowers where once a Greek temple had stood.

Great wheels of fluted marble lay scattered in the green growth, but four columns stood yet against the sky, and as the clouds moved beyond, these columns appeared weightless and to be floating with some eerie motion of their own.

Tonio found the sacred floor. He walked its broken stones until he charted the whole, and then he lay down in the fresh grass that seemed everywhere to rise through crevices and cracks; and looking full into the blinding light, he wondered if he had ever known such serenity in all his life as he had known this past year.