Cry to Heaven (63 page)

The
abbati
were one solid roar in his ears, and through a glaze of bitter tears, he looked up again to that horseshoe of infuriated faces.

Bat something was happening. Something was changing. The dog gave out its last piercing yelps as it was dragged away, and suddenly a deluge of orderly clapping drowned out the hoots and the stamps and the laughter.

Bettichino had returned to the stage. He had thrown up his hands for order.

His face was contorted with rage, red to the roots of his blond hair, and he shouted in full voice:

“Silence!”

An approving roar went up all around, drowning the last volley of hoots and curses.

“Let the boy sing!” Bettichino cried.

And at once the first tier signaled its assent in loud applause, all sinking again to their chairs, as the
abbati
settled en masse, picking up their scores and righting their candles.

Bettichino stood glaring before him.

The house went absolutely quiet.

And then, throwing his cape over his shoulder, Bettichino composed his face, and turned slowly towards Tonio. The most innocent smile blossomed on Bettichino’s features; he extended his hand to Tonio. He bowed to him.

Guido stared speechless at Tonio as Tonio stood absolutely alone in this void of relentless light and perfect silence.

Bettichino clasped his hands behind his back and assumed an air of one who is waiting.

Guido shut his eyes: with an emphatic nod he spread out his hands, hearing the rustle of the musicians around him, and then all of a piece they commenced the introduction to the aria.

Tonio, placid as before, his eyes fixed not on the audience before him, but rather on that distant masterly singer, opened his mouth and right on pitch as always let loose the first gilded stream of melody.

Slow, slow, Guido was thinking, and into the second part Tonio went, only now beginning the more intricate passages, the back and forth, the up and down, the slow building of trills with ease and control, until returning again he commenced his true ornamentation.

Guido had thought he was ready for it, but instantly he adjusted himself: Tonio had chosen that very one note trill that Bettichino had done so perfectly and was now sustaining it with the very same rhythmic pace of Bettichino’s aria and not
his own, though to anyone else the shift would be indistinguishable. The note was limpid, sparkling and growing stronger and stronger as, trilling it all the while, he commenced now to swell it and diminish it. He was performing both of Bettichino’s feats simultaneously and with perfection, but it was going on and on, that note stretched across infinity. Guido himself could no longer breathe, and feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck, he saw Tonio’s head lift ever so slightly as without a break Tonio now ascended in the most exquisite passage, rising and rising until he found that very same note again, only a full octave higher.

Slowly, slowly he swelled it, slowly he let it pulse from his throat, this very limit of what the human voice could attain, yet so velvet smooth and soft it seemed the loveliest sigh of grief drawn out and out until one could not endure it.

If he breathed now, no one saw it, no one heard it, they knew only he had plunged down in that same languid pace, singing softly of sadness and pain, and taking it lower now into the full raw throb of his contralto, where he stopped with the slightest catch of his head and stood motionless.

Guido bowed his head. The boards beneath his feet shook with the obliterating roar that rose from every corner. No rabble’s din would equal such a sound as these two thousand men and women thundering their shared adoration. Yet Guido waited, waited, until from all over the first floor he heard the voices he must hear: the
abbati
themselves screaming “Bravo, Tonio! Bravo, Tonio!” and then just when he had told himself in this sweetest victory he did not care, he heard from all sides a second cry: “Bravo, Guido Maffeo!”

Once, twice, a hundred times, he heard those two cries intermingling. And then just before he rose to take his bows, he looked up to see Tonio motionless as before, his eyes not on anyone beyond the painted world that surrounded him. Rather he was looking silently to Bettichino.

Bettichino’s eyes were narrow, his face distant. And then slowly he yielded to a long smile, nodding as he did so. And when that happened it seemed the house renewed its torrential clamor.

I
T WAS PAST MIDNIGHT
; the theater reverberated with the tromp of those pouring into the streets, with the laughter and shrieks of those descending the pitch-black stairwells.

Tonio slammed the door of the dressing room, quickly latching it. He pulled off the gilded pasteboard helmet, and resting his head against the door, he stared at Signora Bianchi.

Almost at once a pounding started. The door rattled violently behind him.

He stood catching his breath, and all of his exhaustion descended upon him. For four hours he and Bettichino had vied with one another, every aria a new contest, every encore full of new triumphs and new surprises. He could not quite believe now that it had happened; he wanted others to tell him it had been as he felt it was; and yet he wanted not to be near anyone, but to be alone, and he saw sleep in waves coming to bear him out of this room and away from all those who clamored so loudly to get into it.

“Darling, darling,” Signora Bianchi said. “The hinges are going to break, you must open it!”

“No, get me out of this first.” He moved forward, ripping off the pasteboard shield that was fixed to his arm, and throwing aside the wooden broadsword.

But he paused, struck by the horrific figure in the mirror. A woman’s painted face, crimson lips, eyes etched in black, and this Grecian garb with gilded breast plates to make up an unearthly warrior.

He removed the powdered wig, yet still it was even more hellish than the girl Pirra he’d been when the curtain first went
up, this Achille with his tunic stained with sweat, his face so white it might have been a carnival mask, and just as concealing.

“Get it off, all of it,” he said, his hands moving clumsily, Signora Bianchi struggling to help him.

He pulled on his regular clothes; he scrubbed at his eyes and his skin.

And at last, a frayed young boy, slightly red of face with a glossy mop of black hair fallen down to his shoulders, stood facing the door, ready to receive the first screams and embraces.

Men and women he didn’t know, the players in the orchestra, Francesco the violinist from the conservatorio, a young harlot with lovely red hair—all of them beat him with their arms, lips leaving their wetness on his cheeks, as several servants crowded in, gifts in hand, waiting to present them. There were letters for him that each courier demanded he read and answer now; flowers were being carried in, and the impresario Ruggerio crushed him so hard to his chest that he almost lifted him off the floor. Signora Bianchi was now sobbing.

Somehow or other he’d been pushed into the vast open space outside his door, a great hanging backdrop creaking as he fell against it. Paolo’s voice suddenly rose above the din calling “Tonio, Tonio!” and he found himself thrashing about until, seeing Paolo’s outstretched arms, he caught him up and held him to his shoulder. Someone steadied him meantime. A tall gentleman clasped his right hand and deposited in it a tiny jeweled snuffbox. It was impossible to bow; whispered thanks went in the wrong direction. A young woman had kissed him suddenly on the mouth, and in a panic he almost fell backwards. And no sooner had Paolo’s feet touched the floor again than people were trampling him.

But Tonio quickly realized Ruggerio was pressing him back into the dressing room where a half-dozen little padded silk chairs had been arranged and the dressing tables were banks of fragrant flowers.

He fell down into a chair; another woman had appeared, surrounded by liveried gentlemen it seemed, and suddenly grabbing in her hands a whole mass of soft white blooms, she pressed them right to his face and he laughed out loud, feeling
all that coolness and softness. Her blue eyes were puckered in a silent smile as he looked up. He nodded his gratitude.

And then there was Guido. Guido who had slipped in against the wall and was staring at him with the most remarkable expression. His mind shot back unerringly to that moment in the Contessa Lamberti’s house when he had first sung, and there was that same brimming pride and brimming love. He rose up into Guido’s arms and held him in a long moment of dark concealing silence until the room around him fell still, and no one was there, only he and Guido. Or so it seemed. And so it didn’t matter.

Somewhere far off, Ruggerio was making polite excuses. A voice returned: “But my mistress is waiting for an answer.” And Signora Bianchi was horrified to discover that Paolo’s right hand was cut and bleeding. “Good God, a dog has bitten you!” But none of this penetrated. Guido’s heart was beating against Tonio’s heart, and then ever so gently Guido guided him back to the chair and, holding his arms, said:

“We must go now and pay our respects to the great singer….”

“Oh, no, not through that crowd!” Tonio shook his head. “Not now…”

“We must, and now…” Guido insisted, and with a faint smile, he said, “It is very, very important that we do so.”

Tonio rose obediently and Ruggerio and Guido on both sides shoved him through the crowd towards yet another mob at Bettichino’s door and into the singer’s more spacious, brilliantly lit dressing room. It seemed in fact a parlor where some five or six men and women were already seated with their wine, and Bettichino still in his costume and paint rose immediately to greet Tonio.

In a moment of confusion, the room was emptied at Bettichino’s insistence, except for Guido, who stood just behind the singer, his face silently urging Tonio to be his most courteous.

Tonio bowed his head. He spoke softly.

“Signore, I’ve learned much from you tonight. I could not have learned it had we not performed on the same stage….”

“Oh, stop it,” Bettichino scoffed. He laughed out loud. “Spare me such nonsense, Signore Treschi,” he said. “We both
know this was your triumph. I must apologize for my devotees, but I doubt they ever set a better stage for a rival.”

He paused. But he was not finished. He drew himself up as though he were in the midst of a little debate, his expression intensified by the paint he still wore, gold dust and white gloss.

“You know,” he said, “it’s been too long since I gave my best on any stage anywhere. But I gave it tonight, you saw to it that I had to give it. And for that I thank you, Signore Treschi. But don’t meet me on those boards tomorrow night, or the next, or the next after that without everything God gave you. I’m ready for you now. You’ll need it to stand up to me.”

Tonio blushed deeply, his eyes moist. He was smiling, however, as if he couldn’t prevent it.

And then as if reading Tonio’s thoughts, Bettichino suddenly opened his arms. He held Tonio tight for an instant and then let him go.

Tonio was in a quiet delirium as he opened the door. But he stopped as behind him he heard Bettichino say to Guido:

“This isn’t really your first opera, is it, Maestro? Where are you going after this?”

H
UNDREDS CROWDED
the Cardinal Calvino’s reception, which lasted till dawn. The old Roman families, visiting nobles, even royalty, passed through his vast and brilliantly illuminated halls.

The Cardinal himself presented Tonio to many in attendance, and Tonio found it deliciously excruciating finally, the never-ending praise, the soft recounting of various moments, the gracious greetings and soft clasping of hands. He smiled at
the disparaging remarks on Bettichino. Bettichino was beyond question the greater singer, no matter what anyone said.

But Tonio had made them all forget that for a little while.

Even the Cardinal himself had been moved by the performance, and drawing Tonio aside finally, struggled to describe his response.

“Angels, Marc Antonio,” he said with subdued amazement, “what are they, what is the sound of their voices? And how can one who is corporeal sing as you did tonight?”

“You are too generous, my lord,” Tonio answered.

“Am I wrong when I say it was ethereal? Do I misunderstand? At some point in the theater they came together, the world of the spirit and the world of the flesh, and from the fusion, your voice rose. I saw about me worldly men, laughing, drinking, enjoying themselves as I see men everywhere, and then they would hearken in perfect silence to your singing. So was it but the highest level of their sensual pleasure? Or was it rather a spiritual pleasure become, for the moment, earth-bound?”

Tonio marveled at the Cardinal’s seriousness. He was warmed by the Cardinal’s obvious admiration, and he felt he might gladly give up the crowds now, the drink, the sweet delirium of the evening just to be alone again with the Cardinal and talk of these things for a while.

But the Cardinal took him by the hand and led him back to the others. Liveried servants opened the double doors on the ballroom and they were to be lost from each other again.

“But you have taught me something, Marc Antonio,” the Cardinal confessed in a quick, furtive whisper. “And that is how to love what I do not understand. I tell you not to love what is beautiful and incomprehensible would be vanity, not virtue.” And then he gave Tonio a small ceremonial kiss.

Count Raffaele di Stefano had his compliments for the music also, confessing the opera had never much affected him in the past. He stayed ever close to Tonio, though he did not much talk to him, watching all those around Tonio with jealous eyes.

And the sight of Raffaele tantalized Tonio as the evening wore on. It brought back the bedchamber vividly and there were moments when Raffaele seemed a creature who should not be clothed as other men at all. The thick hair on the backs
of his wrists appeared incongruous under layers of lace, and Tonio had to turn his eyes elsewhere or he would have left with Raffaele right then.