by Anne Rice
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.
6
TONIO'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 Pie 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.
"But I've made very special arrangements for tonight," Domenico said. "Don't you remember? I told you."
There was a slightly timorous quality to Domenico's voice. Tonio turned to see him better by the light of the one candle. He was splendidly decked out. His slender frame supported clothing with all the grace of those figures in French fashion engravings. And for the first time, Tonio realized they were eye to eye though Domenico was two years older than he. If he didn't get rid of him, he would lose his mind.
"I'm tired, Domenico," he whispered, annoyed with himself for being so rude. "You must leave me alone now...."
"But Tonio!" Domenico was obviously surprised. "I've arranged everything. I told you. I'm leaving in the morning. You can't have forgotten that...." His voice trailed off.
Tonio had never seen his face so agitated. It gave a piquant spice to his looks and aroused some careless passion in Tonio.
But suddenly it dawned on him what Domenico was trying to tell him. Of course, this was his last night because he was going to Rome immediately! Everyone had been talking about his leaving, and now the moment had come. Maestro Cavalla wanted him there early to rehearse with Loretti. Loretti had fought Maestro Cavalla for the opportunity to write his opera for Domenico, and Maestro Cavalla, whose taste was far better than his talent, had conceded.
The moment had come and Tonio had completely overlooked it.
He began to dress immediately, vainly trying to recall what Domenico had told him.
"I've got a private room for us with supper ordered at the Albergo Inghilterra," Domenico explained. This was that lavish place by the sea where Tonio had rested after his night on the mountain. He stopped for an instant when he heard the name, then he pulled on his slippers and took his sword down from its hook.
"I'm sorry. I don't know where my mind is," he murmured.
He was more ashamed when he entered the rooms. They were not those he had let before, but they commanded a full view of the sea, and through the freshly washed windows the sand was perfectly white in the moonlight.
The bed was in its own small chamber already lit with several candelabra, and the supper table was set in the main room and decked out with linen and silver.
All very pretty and he could not concentrate on a word that Domenico was saying to him.
He talked about the rivalry between Loretti and his teacher, and how unsure he was of the audiences in Rome, why did he have to go to Rome, why couldn't he have made his first appearance in Naples. After all, look what the Romans had done to Pergolesi.
"Pergolesi...Pergolesi..." Tonio whispered. "I hear that name everywhere...."
But this was an imitation of conversation. His eyes moved over the white panels of the walls, their dark green painted leaves and blue and red flowers. All appeared dusty, shadowy in this mellow light, and Domenico's taut, pale skin looked good enough to...
He should have bought him some gift. It was dreadful that he hadn't, and what the hell was he going to say about it?
"Will you come!" Domenico said again.
"What?" Tonio stammered.
Domenico threw down the knife in disgust. He bit into his lip, an exquisite child angry and confused. Then he looked at Tonio as if he could not believe what was taking place here.
"Come to Rome," he repeated. "You must come! Tonio, it's not as if you were some charity student. If you tell Maestro Maffeo you must go, he'll let you go. You can come with the Contessa, why there are any--"
"Domenico, I can't go to Rome! Why would I go to Rome--" But before the words were out of his mouth, bits and pieces of the conversation came back to him.
Domenico's face was so stricken that Tonio couldn't bear to look at it.
"You're just anxious and you've got no reason to be," Tonio said. "You're going to be a sensation!"
"I'm not anxious," Domenico whispered. He had turned away and was looking into the shadows. "Tonio, I thought you would want to be there...."
"I would if I could, but I can't pick up and leave."
It was unbearable to see him like this. He looked so miserable. Tonio ran his hand back through his hair. He was tired; his shoulders ached, and he wanted to sleep more than anything, and suddenly the prospect of remaining in this room a moment longer seemed impossible.
"Domenico, you won't think about me when you get to Rome, you know you won't," he said. "You'll forget me and everyone else here."
Domenico would not look at him. He was staring off as if nothing Tonio had said penetrated.
"You'll be famous," Tonio said. "My God, what did the Maestro say? You could go on to Venice if you wanted to, or right to London. You know as well as I do..."
Domenico put his napkin down and rose from the chair. He came round and before Tonio could stop him he had dropped down on his knees beside him. He looked into Tonio's eyes.
"Tonio," he said, "I want you to come with me, not just to Rome, but everywhere after that. I won't go to Venice if you don't want to go there. We can go to Bologna and Milan and then to Vienna. We can go to Warsaw, Dresden, I don't care where we go, but I want you to come with me. I wasn't going to ask you until we were in Rome, until I saw that things go well, and if they don't go well, well...I can't think about that. But if they do, Tonio..."
"No. No, stop this," Tonio said. "You don't mean all this, and it's out of the question. I can't just drop my studies. You don't know what you're saying...."
"Not forever," Domenico said, "just in the beginning, six months perhaps. Tonio, you have the means, it's not as if you were poor, you've never been poor, and you--"
"It has nothing to do with that!" Tonio said, suddenly angry. "I have no desire to go with you! What ever made you think I would do it!"
Instantly he regretted it.
But it was too late, and it had been said with too perfect a candor.
Domenico had gone to the window. He stood with his back to the room, a somewhat delicate figure partially concealed by the shadows, and he appeared to be looking up as if to the sky. And Tonio felt, I must make this up to him.
But he did not know the extent to which he'd wounded Domenico until Domenico turned and again approached him.
Domenico's face was knotted and small and stained with tears, and as he drew near, he bit his lip and his eyes glimmered and melted.
Tonio was quietly stunned.
"I never dreamed that you would want me to come," Tonio said. But dismayed by the irritation in his voice, he stopped, defeated.
How had it come to this?
He had thought this boy so strong, so cold. It was as much a part of his charm as this exquisite mouth, these skilled hands, the pliant and graceful body that always received him.
And now ashamed and miserable, Tonio felt more alone with Domenico than he had ever felt. If only he could pretend to love him just for this moment.
But as if reading his thoughts, Domenico said:
"You care nothing for me."
"I didn't know you wanted me to," Tonio said. "I swear I didn't!" But on the edge of tears himself, he suddenly became angry. That cruelty welled in him that he'd so often let loose in bed. "Good God," he said, "what have we ever been to each other!"
<
br /> "We've been lovers!" Domenico answered in the smallest, most private whisper.
"We have not!" Tonio came back. "It's all games and foolishness, nothing but the most shameful..."
Domenico put his hands to his ears as if he wouldn't listen.
"And stop crying, for the love of God, do you know what you're acting like, an insufferable eunuch!"
Domenico winced. His face was very wet and white as he spoke. "How can you say that to me? How you must loathe yourself to talk this way to me! Oh, God, I wish you'd never come here, I wish I'd never seen you. Damn you into hell. I wish you were burning in hell...."
Tonio sucked in his breath. He shook his head. And as he watched helplessly Domenico went to the door as if to leave him.
But he turned back. His face was so perfectly made that even in this misery he had an irresistible beauty. Passion colored it and sharpened it, and he looked as innocent and wounded as the smallest child who has just begun to understand disappointment. "I...I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he confessed. "Tonio, I can't..." And then he stopped as if he couldn't continue. "All the time, I thought you cared for me. When you first came, you were so miserable, so alone. You seemed so to despise everyone. And at night, we could hear you when you thought everyone slept, and you were crying. We could hear it. And then when you came back and you put on the sash, you tried so hard to deceive us. But I knew you were miserable. We all knew it. Just to be with you...it was to feel pain. I could feel it! And I thought...I thought I was good for you. You didn't cry anymore, and you were with me. I thought...I thought...that you cared for me!"
Tonio put his head in his hands. He let out a low moan and then behind him he heard the door close and Domenico's steps on the stairway.
7
THE WEEK HAD BEEN UNENDURABLE. Since Domenico's departure for Rome, restless nights had worn Tonio down, and this evening as he came back from the supper table he knew he could not work any longer now.
Guido would have to let him go early. Anger and threats could not keep him here.
Domenico had left at dawn after their evening at the albergo. Loretti had gone with him, and Maestro Cavalla would come after. There had been laughing in the corridors, the tramp of feet.