Authors: Anne Rice
All the next day Tonio struggled with his exercises, marveling that he now possessed such control over his voice that he could get through them.
If there was ever a formal acknowledgment of Lorenzo’s death he did not hear it. If the body was found and brought back to the conservatorio, he did not know it.
Taking no breakfast or lunch (the thought of food disgusted him), he lay in his room at various periods wondering what was going to happen to him.
The fact that Guido carried on as usual was of course the most significant indication that Tonio wasn’t going to be arrested. He knew, absolutely
knew
, that if he were in danger, Guido would tell him.
But as the congregation convened for the evening meal, he began to realize there was a subtle but unmistakable current moving through the dining hall. Everyone at one time or another was looking at him.
The regular boys, whom he had steadfastly avoided as if they did not exist, were giving him the smallest and most significant nods when their eyes met. And little Paolo, the castrato from Florence who always managed to sit very close to him, could not keep his eyes off Tonio, forgetting finally to
eat. His round little snub-nosed face was full of deep fascination, and not once did he break into one of his impish smiles. As for the other castrati at table, they were clearly deferring to Tonio, passing him the bread first, and the communal pitcher of wine.
Domenico was nowhere to be seen; for the first time, Tonio wanted him here, not naked in bed upstairs, but here beside him.
And when he entered the theater for the evening’s rehearsal, Francesco, the violinist from Milan, came up to him and asked him politely if in all his years at Venice he had ever heard the great Tartini.
Tonio murmured assent. Yes, and Vivaldi, too, he had heard them both that last summer on the Brenta.
This was all so unexpected and strange!
At last he was in his room, and exhausted. Domenico was in the shadows, he knew, though he could not see him. And finally Tonio, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out:
“It was stupid, rash and stupid, for that boy to die.”
“Probably the will of God,” Domenico answered.
“Are you playing with me!” Tonio flashed.
“No. He couldn’t really sing. Everyone knew that. And what is a eunuch who can’t sing? He was better off dead.” Domenico shrugged with perfect candor.
“Maestro Guido is a eunuch who cannot sing,” Tonio whispered angrily.
“And Maestro Guido has twice tried to take his own life,” said Domenico coolly. “Besides, Maestro Guido is the best teacher in this conservatorio. He’s better than Maestro Cavalla and everyone knows it. But Lorenzo? What could Lorenzo do? Croak in a country church where no one knew any better? The world’s full of eunuchs like that. It was in God’s hands,” and again he shrugged rather wearily.
He wound his arm around Tonio’s waist like an agreeable snake. “Besides,” he said, “what are you so worried about? He had no family.”
“And the police?”
Domenico laughed outright. “My, but Venice must be a peaceful and orderly city! Come.” He started to kiss Tonio.
This was the longest conversation they’d ever had and it was over.
But late that night, while Domenico slept, Tonio sat silently at the window.
He was stunned by the death of Lorenzo. He did not want to put it out of his mind, though for long moments he merely stared at the distant peak of Vesuvius. There were soundless flashes of light, and a trail of smoke marked the path of the lava flowing down to the sea.
It was as if he were mourning Lorenzo because no one else mourned him.
And against his will, he found himself far, far away from here, in that little town on the edge of the Venetian State, alone, under the stars, running. He felt the crunch of the dirt under his feet, and then those bravos taking hold of him. He was carried back into that dirty little room. He struggled with all his strength against them while they, as if in nightmare, forced him down over and over again.
He shuddered. He looked at the mountain. I am in Naples, he thought, and yet his memory expanded with all the insubstantiality of a dream.
Flovigo melted into Venice. He held the stiletto in his hands and this time he faced another opponent.
His mother cried and cried, her hair obscuring her face, as she had cried that last night in the supper room. They had not even taken leave of each other. When would they have their farewells? In those last moments, he had never dreamed that he would be parted from her. And now she cried on and on as if there were no one to comfort her.
He lifted the knife. He felt its handle firmly in his grip. And then he saw a familiar expression—what was it?—horror on Carlo’s face? Surprise? The tension snapped.
He was in Naples, his head on the windowsill, exhausted.
He opened his eyes. The city of Naples was waking before him. The sun sent its first rays into the mist that shrouded the trees. The sea was a gleam of metal.
Lorenzo, he thought, you were not the one. And yet the boy himself was already obliterated. And Tonio felt pride in that abominable moment, the blade, the body on the tavern floor.
Stricken, he bowed his head. He understood this pride in all its miserable components. He understood all the glory, all the significance, of that appalling act.
That he had been able to do it so easily, that he would do it again!
Domenico’s delicate face was smooth in sleep as he lay so easily on the pillow.
And the sight of that beauty, given over to him so much and so often, made Tonio feel absolutely alone.
Entering the practice room an hour later, he needed the music, he needed Guido, and he felt his voice rising to meet this day’s challenges with a new purity and new vigor. It seemed the most difficult and intricate problems disappeared under his persistent attack. And by noon, he felt lulled by the possibility of beauty in the simplest tone.
Putting on his frock coat that night to go out, he realized that it had been tight on him for some time. He stared at his outstretched hands. And glancing up, almost furtively, in the mirror was astonished that he had grown so much so soon.
T
ONIO’S HEIGHT WAS INCREASING
rapidly, there was no doubt of it, and every time he took some notice of it, he felt a weakening, a sudden loss of breath.
But he kept this to himself. He had his new coats made with longer arms, knowing he would soon outgrow them otherwise, and though Guido worked him mercilessly, it seemed the entire city of Naples was outdoing herself to distract him.
In July, he had already witnessed the dazzling spectacle of
St. Rosalia when fireworks had illuminated the whole sea, and it seemed a thousand boats had been brilliantly lit over the water.
And now in August shepherds came out of the distant hills of Apulia and Calabria, playing pipes and stringed instruments which Tonio had never heard, and dressed in the most rustic sheepskins, they visited the churches and houses of the aristocracy.
September brought the annual procession to Madonna del Piè di Grotta. All the boys of Naples’ great conservatorios walked in it beneath balconies and windows beautifully and sumptuously draped for the occasion. The weather was milder, the summer heat had lifted.
And in October, the boys were gathered morning and night for nine days at the Franciscan church, an official duty for which the conservatorios were exempt from certain taxes.
Soon Tonio lost all track of the saints’ days, the festivals, the street fairs, and the official occasions on which he was appearing. While untrained, he had often kept silent in the chorus, or sung only a few bars. But he was learning more and more of the music and singing it well, as Guido kept him up late and had him rise early to go over it.
There were enormous and elaborate processions for the various guilds in which the boys sometimes rode on massive floats, and there were also funerals.
And every waking hour in between there was Guido. There was the empty stone study, the exercises, and Tonio’s voice gaining new flexibility, exactness.
Early in the fall, however, Tonio had received a letter from his cousin Catrina Lisani, and he was surprised at how little it affected him.
She said she was coming to Naples to see him. He at once wrote that she must not do this. He had put the past behind him, he said, and if she appeared here, he would not see her.
He hoped she would never write again, but there was not time to think about it, to brood, to let this throw its mantle over the present.
And when she wrote again, he answered politely that he would leave Naples, if need be, to avoid a meeting with her.
* * *
Her letters changed after this. Despairing of a visit, she broke her guarded style with a new candor:
Everyone laments your departure. Tell me what you desire and I shall send it to you. Until I had your letter in hand and matched it with your old lessons, I did not believe you were living, though I had been told otherwise.
What do you wish to know of this place? I will tell you all. Your mother was gravely ill after you left, refusing all food and drink, but she is now recovered.
And your brother, your devoted brother! Why, he so reproaches himself for your going away that only the fair sex in great numbers can comfort him. And this medicine he mixes with as much wine as possible, though nothing prevents his morning attendance at the Grand Council.
At this Tonio put the letter aside, the words scalding him. Unfaithful to her so soon, he mused, and does she know it? And she was ill, was she, poisoned no doubt by the lies that he had forced her to digest, and why must he read any of this? Yet again, he unfolded the parchment:
Write to me what you wish. My husband is ever your champion in the Council, and this banishment will not endure forever. I love you, my dearest cousin.
Weeks passed before he was to answer her. He had told himself these few years belonged to him, and that he did not wish to hear from her, nor anyone from Venice, ever again.
But one evening, without warning or explanation, the urge seized him, and he sat down and wrote her a brief but courteous reply.
After that, not a fortnight passed that he did not hear from her, though often he destroyed her letters so that he would not be tempted to read them over and over.
Another purse arrived from Venice. He had more money than he could spend.
And that winter he sold his carriage, as he never used it and did not wish to maintain it. And thinking that if he was to have a eunuch’s long and lanky body he should dress it well, he ordered more magnificent clothes than ever in the past.
The Maestro di Cappella teased him on account of it, and so did Guido, but he was ever generous, gave gold to the beggars in the streets, and brought little Paolo presents whenever he could.
But he was rich even after that. Carlo had seen to it. He might have invested his funds. But he never found the time.
And as full as life was, as crowded with event and struggle and constant work, he was still astonished the morning Guido told him he would sing a solo in the Christmas Oratorio.
Christmas. He had been in this place half a year!
For a long moment he didn’t reply. He was thinking that it had been at a Christmas mass in San Marco that he had first sung with Alessandro when he was only five years old.
He saw that fleet of gondolas going out across the water to venerate the relics on San Giorgio. Carlo would be with them now.
He tried to put this out of his mind.
And he realized that Domenico would be leaving Naples for Rome soon.
Domenico would make his first appearance in Rome at the Teatro Argentina at the opening of the Roman carnival on the New Year.
What had Guido said? That he would sing, he would sing what? He murmured some apology and when Guido said it again, that he was to sing a solo in the Christmas Oratorio, Tonio shook his head.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m not ready.”
“Who are you to tell me whether or not you are ready?” Guido asked earnestly. “Of course you’re ready. I wouldn’t have you sing it if you weren’t ready.”
Tonio could not stop the vision of all the lanterns riding the black lagoon as a fleet of gondolas made the Christmas crossing to San Giorgio.
The morning sun was shining full on the conservatorio garden outside, making each archway of the cloister a picture of yellow light and fluttering leaves. No, the light was tinted green actually. And yet Tonio wasn’t in this place. He was in San Marco. His mother said, “See, your father!”
“Maestro, don’t put me to this test,” he murmured. He summoned
all his Venetian breeding. “I cannot rely on my voice, and if you force me to sing alone, I’ll fail you.”
This worked wonders on Guido, who was getting angry.
“Tonio,” he said, “have I perhaps failed
you
? I wonder. You are ready to sing this solo!”
Tonio didn’t answer. He was too surprised, because he could not remember Guido ever calling him by name before. And he was unprepared for the fact that he cared so much that Guido had done so.
He insisted again that he couldn’t sing. He tried to dispel the atmosphere of San Marco. Alessandro was right beside him, and Alessandro said, “I never believed it!”
When the day drew to a close, he was exhausted. Guido had said no more about the solo, but he had given him several pieces of Christmas music to sing, and for all he knew the solo was one of these. His voice was ugly and unwieldy to him.
And as he climbed the stairs to his room, he was discouraged and anxious. He didn’t want to see Domenico, but there was a thin band of flickering light beneath the door, and Domenico was dressed and ready as though going out for the evening.
“I’m tired,” Tonio said and he turned his back to make this even clearer. Often he and Domenico coupled quickly before Domenico left for some engagement. And he could not do it tonight, the very thought of it oppressed him.
He stared at his hands. This black uniform was already too short; he deliberately avoided his reflection in the nearby mirror.