by Anne Rice
He went to the churches of the small towns. He heard the opera everywhere in the villages and in the cities.
And by the time he left Florence, he had two boys of some talent boarded in a monastery until he should take them back to Naples. They were not marvels, but they were better than all he'd heard so far, and he dreaded the return journey with nothing.
In Bologna, he frequented the cafes, met with the great theatrical agents, spent hours with singers gathered there to pick up an offer for a season, hoping to hear of that ragged boy with a great voice who might be dreaming of the stage, who might want the chance to study in the great conservatorios of Naples.
Old friends now and then appeared to buy him a drink, singers who'd been in class with him. Glad to see him and feeling completely superior to him now, they proudly related their adventures.
But he found nothing.
And as spring came on, as the air grew warmer and sweeter and the large green leaves came back to the limbs of the poplar trees, Guido pushed on, north, to the deepest mystery of all Italy: the great and ancient Republic of Venice.
20
ANDREA TRESCHI DIED in the middle of the worst heat of August. Signore Lemmo's immediate communication to Tonio informed him that Catrina and her husband were now his guardians. And Carlo Treschi, having been called home by his father as soon as death was certain, had already set sail from Istanbul.
PART II
1
THE HOUSE WAS FULL of death and full of strangers. Elderly men in black robes and scarlet robes, endless whispering. And then from inside his father's apartments that terrible sound, that inhuman roaring. He heard it commence, he heard it rise in volume.
And when at last the doors had been flung open, his brother, Carlo, stepped into the corridor and met his eyes with the palest, weakest smile. It was shy; it was defeated; it was the thin terrible embarrassed shield of outrage.
He had watched as his brother came up the Grand Canal. He had seen him standing in the prow of the boat, a cape unfurling lightly on the damp breeze, and that black hair, the very shape of the head familiar. He had watched as Carlo stepped on the dock; he had stood at the top of the staircase waiting for him.
Black eyes, black eyes exactly like his own, and that sudden start when Carlo, surely, perceived the likeness. The face, larger, darkened by the sun, suffused so suddenly with feeling. Carlo had come forward, his hands curling in the gesture of welcome, and taking Tonio in his arms, held him so close it seemed Tonio could feel the sigh coming out of Carlo before he had in fact heard it.
What had Tonio expected? Malice here, bitterness? Passion burnt to cunning? It was a countenance so open it seemed the guileless mirror of warmth. And those hands had so boldly caressed his head, those lips pressed to his forehead. There was a loving possessiveness to his touch, and just for an instant, as they stood in each other's arms, Tonio had felt the most secret and glorious relief.
"You are here," he whispered.
And his brother had said, ever so soft, so it was a rumble from his massive chest, the name:
"Tonio."
And then that inchoate roar, that appalling roar, rising, rising, that growl through clenched teeth, that fist coming down again and again on his father's table.
"Carlo!" Catrina whispered, rising behind Tonio with a rustle of silk, her mourning veil thrown back as the doors opened to release him, her face full of sadness.
Soft noises, whispers. Catrina went behind him down the corridor. Signore Lemmo rushed to and fro on soundless feet. And Marianna in her mourning dress stared before her.
Now and then Tonio saw the glint of the rosary beads moving through her hand, the glint of her eyes should she look up for an instant.
She had not even raised her head when Carlo entered the room. And he from the corner of his eyes had quietly noted her.
When he did bow, it was to the ground: "Signora Treschi," he said. He was so like his portraits it seemed the burning sun of the Levant had only deepened his color. The hair was dark on the backs of his hands, and a vague Eastern perfume, musky and full of spice, seemed to emanate from him. He wore three rings on his right hand.
And somewhere now behind yet another closed door, Catrina was pleading with him: "Carlo, Carlo."
Beppo appeared at the head of the stairs, and behind him the tall figure of Alessandro.
Alessandro dropped his arm about Tonio's shoulder. They moved swiftly and silently to Tonio's room.
Catrina's voice swelled behind the wall just for a moment: "You are home, don't you see, you are home and young yet and everywhere around you there is life...."
And that lower, incomprehensible rumble of anger interrupting her.
Alessandro removed his dark blue cape as the door shut. He was speckled with rain, and his large dreamy eyes were shadowed with concern.
"So he is here, already," he whispered.
"Alessandro, you must stay on, I need you," Tonio said. "I need you for four years under this roof. I need you until I marry Francesca Lisani. It's all laid down in my father's will, in his instructions to the guardians of the estate. But for four years, Alessandro, I must prevail against him."
Alessandro pressed his finger to Tonio's lips as if he were the angel making the final seal at the moment of creation.
"It's not you who must prevail, Tonio. It's your father's will and those who must execute it. Is he disinherited?"
His voice dropped on this last word. This would have been a terrible thing, accomplished only if Carlo had ever laid hands on his father with the intent to harm him. That had never happened.
"The estate's undivided," Tonio murmured. "But my father's instructions are clear. I am to marry. The bulk of the assets are for my education, training, and all the demands of my life as a statesman. Carlo is allowed a pittance, and advised to devote himself to the welfare of my children..."
Alessandro nodded. It was no surprise to him.
"Alessandro, he is outraged! He demands to know why he must abide by this. He is the eldest son...."
"Tonio, that means nothing in Venice," Alessandro reminded him. "You have been chosen to marry by your father. You must not be frightened by all of this. It is not in your hands, it is in the hands of the law and your guardians."
"Alessandro, he demands to know why the fate of this house must wait upon a boy...."
"Tonio, Tonio," Alessandro whispered. "You couldn't yield to him if you wished. Put your mind at rest. And for whatever good it will do, I am here to stay with you."
Tonio sucked in his breath. He was staring off as if these assurances hadn't penetrated. "Alessandro, if I could only despise him..." he started.
Alessandro had his head to one side, and his face had a look of limitless patience.
"But he does not seem...he is so..."
"It's out of your hands," Alessandro said softly.
"What did you know of him?" Tonio pressed. "Surely you knew of him?"
"Of him, yes," Alessandro said, and without realizing it, he moved to wipe a strand of hair from Tonio's forehead. His hand rested on Tonio's shoulder. "But only what everyone knew. He was an impetuous young man. And there was death in this house, his mother's death, the death of his brothers. There is little more that I can tell you."
"Catrina does not despise him," Tonio whispered. "She is sorry for him!"
"Ah, Tonio, she is sorry for him but she is your guardian and she will stand by you. When you come to understand that you are powerless in this, you will have peace."
"But Alessandro, tell me. The woman he refused. Years ago, when my father wanted to arrange a marriage..."
"I know nothing of all that," Alessandro said with a little shake of the head.
"But he refused a bride whom my father had chosen for him. He ran off with some convent girl, but the bride he refused. Alessandro, was it my mother?"
Alessandro had been on the verge of a denial when he paused, and for a moment seemed not to understand the question.
"I
f she was the girl Carlo refused, it will be unendurable for her here...."
Alessandro was silent for a moment. "She was not the girl he refused," he answered softly.
Dark house, empty house, alien sounds.
He climbed the steps to the upper floor.
He knew Carlo was in the old room; he could see the uncommon daylight spilling out into the dusty passage.
That morning his brother had asked for him at table, sent his Turkish servants to invite him down, and he had sat alone in bed, his head in his hands, murmuring excuses to these alien faces.
Now he moved swiftly on the balls of his feet until he stood at the door and saw his brother moving among the ruined things, the bed a scaffold of dust and rags, a book in Carlo's hand, swollen from the rain, its pages heavy and damp still as he turned them. He was reading in a whisper, the blue sky behind him obscured by the grimed windows, and it seemed the sound of his whisper belonged to this place, and with a dull rhythm he spoke the words now, louder, yet to himself, his right hand moving in the air ever so slightly.
He saw Tonio. And that warmth came to his face, the eyes crinkled gently with his smile, and closing the book he laid his right hand open on it.
"Come in, little brother," he said. "You see I am...well, at a loss. I cannot invite you to sit here with me in my old apartments."
There was no irony in his tone, yet the blood rushed to Tonio's face, and sick with shame he looked down, unable to form an answer.
Why hadn't he sent the servants here at once to prepare this room? Why hadn't he thought of it? Lord God, he had been master of this house for just that little while, had he not? And if not he, who, then, might have given the order? He stared at the stained and peeling walls, at the ruined carpet.
"Ah, but you see the love for me that was lavished here," Carlo sighed. He laid the book down, his eyes moving over the fractured ceiling. "You see how my treasures were put away for me, my clothing saved from the moths, my books in dry and safe places."
"Forgive me, Signore!"
"And for what?" Carlo extended his hand, and as Tonio drew near, Carlo gathered him to himself, and again Tonio felt that kindling warmth, that strength. And in some recess of his mind, untroubled, he thought, I shall look like this when I am a man; I see the future as few ever see it. His brother kissed him gently on the forehead.
"What could you have done, little brother?"
He did not wait for the answer. He had opened the book again, and his hand moved over the decaying letters, The Tempest, written in English and beneath it the twin columns of print, his voice dropping again, into that rhythmic whisper:
"Full fathom five thy father lies..." And as he looked up again, he seemed positively distracted by the vision of Tonio.
What is it, what do you see? Do you despise me, Tonio was thinking. And the ruin of the room seemed to press in on him, the dust suffocating him, and he could for the first time breathe in the stench of all that was spoiled and rotting here.
But his brother had not looked away, and his black eyes had lost all consciousness of their own expression.
"First child of the union," Carlo whispered. "Child born at the height of passion. Blessed with everything, so the saying goes, the first child." And now his brows knit and his mouth showed the smallest tightening at the edges.
"But then I was the last of my parents' brood," he went on, "and we two are so alike. There is no rule, then, is there? First child, last child, save the father's feeling for the first child!"
"Please, Signore, I don't understand what you are saying."
"No, and why should you?" Carlo said, the tone as even as before, as gentle and without malice. Wondering, he looked at Tonio as if he liked looking at him. And Tonio beneath his gaze was wilting inside and miserable.
"Do you understand this, then?" Carlo asked. "Look around you." It was that roar threatening again, that roaring nudging at the edge of language.
"Signore, please, let me have the servants clean this place..."
"Oh, will you do that? You are the master here, are you not?" And the voice was stretched ever thinner.
Tonio looked into his eyes. It wasn't anger, it was outrage. And shaking his head helplessly, Tonio looked away.
"No, little brother, it is not your doing," said Carlo. "And what a princeling you are," he said with the gentlest sincerity. "How he must have loved you. But I dare say, I would love you too if I were your father."
"Signore, show us the way now to love each other!"
"But I do love you," Carlo whispered. "But leave me in this place before I say what I will regret. You see, I am not myself here yet, but rather I have come to this house to find myself slain here, and put to rest by others, and so I roam this place as if I were the ghost of myself, and in that state of mind come dangerously near to thoughts and words that are hellish."
"Oh, please, come out of here, then. Please...His apartments on the main floor, Signore, you can take them...."
"Ah, do you give me those rooms, little brother?"
"Signore, I did not mean that I give them to you. I meant no such disrespect. I meant only surely you can take them."
Carlo smiled, and looking up, he let the book drop to the table. Then he took Tonio's head again in both hands almost roughly.
"Oh, why couldn't you have been some spoilt and arrogant boy?" he whispered. "And I could have damned him further for so indulging you?"
"Signore, we cannot speak of these things. If we do, we cannot abide each other."
"And wit and wisdom and courage, yes, courage, that is what you have, little brother. You come to face me and talk to me. You said, what, a moment ago, that I must show you a way for us to love each other?"
Tonio nodded. He knew his voice would break if he spoke just yet. And so close to this man that he held himself stiffly, he slowly bent forward until his lips touched his brother's cheek and he felt Carlo's sigh again as Carlo's arm enfolded him.
"So difficult, difficult," Catrina said. It was past midnight and all the house was dark save the room in which he was pacing. Tonio could hear the wine in his voice; it was erupting. There was no modulation.
"But you have come back rich, and you are yet young...and dear God, is there not enough in this city to content you without wife, children? You are free--!"
"Signora, I am done with freedom. I know what can be bought. I know what can be had. Yes, rich, and young, and free, for fifteen years I have been that! And I tell you while he was living it was the fire of purgatory, and now that he is dead, it is hell! Don't talk to me of freedom. Penance enough I did so that I might wed and--"
"Carlo, you cannot go against him!"
Servants with dark faces swept the corridors. Young men lingered at the doors of Andrea's old rooms, Marcello Lisani came early to breakfast with Carlo at the long supper room table.
"Come in, Tonio!" Carlo gestured, rising at once, the chair sliding back on the tiles, at the glimpse of his brother passing the doorway.
But Tonio, bowing quickly, escaped him. And once inside his room, stood silently against the door as if he had found some refuge.
"Resigned, no, he is not resigned." Catrina shook her head. Her quick blue eyes narrowed just for an instant as she looked at Tonio's lessons. Then she gave them back to Alessandro. She had a score of papers in a leatherbound folio, what to pay cook, what to pay the valet, these tutors, how much food to lay in, and what else was wanting?
"But you must bear this in silence," she said, closing her hand over Tonio's hands. "You must do nothing to provoke him."
Tonio nodded. Angelo on the edge of the room, drawn and anxious, glanced up now and again from the pages of his breviary.
"So let him gather his old friends, let him see who has influence now, and who holds office"--Catrina's voice dropped as she leaned close and looked into his eyes--"and let him spend his money if he wishes, he has brought a fortune home. He complains of these dark draperies. He is hungry for Venetian luxuries, for French trinket
s and pretty wallpapers. Let him..."
"Yes, yes..." Tonio said.
Each morning, Tonio watched him leave the house, seeing him rush down the stairs with the jingle of keys and the clank of the sword at his side, his boots loud on the marble, sounds so unfamiliar here they seemed to have a life of their own, while through the crack of his door, Tonio saw white wigs in a row on polished wooden heads, and heard Andrea's old whisper: foppery.
"Little brother, come dine with me tonight." He seemed at times to appear out of the shadows as if he had lain in waiting.
"Please forgive me, Signore, my spirits, my father..."
Somewhere Tonio heard the unmistakable sound of his mother singing.
In the late afternoon, Alessandro sat so still at the library table he might have been the statue of himself. Tramp of feet on the stairs. And her voice in that melancholy song very like a hymn drifted through the open doors, but when Tonio rose to find her, she was only just leaving.
Prayerbook in hand, she lowered her veil, and it seemed she did not want to look at him. "Lena will go with me," she answered. She did not need Alessandro today.
"Mamma." Tonio followed her to the door. She was humming something to herself. "Are you content here now? Tell me."
"Oh, why do you ask me this?" Her voice was so light, but her hand, darting from beneath the thin black mesh to pinch his wrist, startled him. He felt a tiny pain for an instant and was angry.
"If you are not happy here, you could go to Catrina's house," he said, all the while dreading that she would leave, and those rooms too would be alien, empty.
"I am in my son's house," she said. "Open the doors," she told the porter.
At night, he lay awake listening to the silence. And all the world outside his door seemed a foreign territory. Passages, rooms he knew, even the damp and neglected places; laughter erupted below; there was that faint, almost imperceptible sound of people moving in this house, a sound no one should have been able to hear, but he could hear it.
Somewhere in the night a woman was shouting something, caustic, uncontrollable. He turned over and shut his eyes, only to realize it was within these walls.
He had slept. He had dreamed. Opening the door, he heard them below, the old exchange again, Catrina's voice high-pitched and strident. Was he weeping?