Cry to Heaven

  Across the dim vista of the darkened room, he saw Guido at the harpsichord, his candles a handful of tongues that were solid and still in the air, Guido's scowling face beneath them seen as if through a dusky veil.

  The sharp, distinct smell of the ink reached him, and then he heard the scratch of Guido's pen. Once again, Guido played that melody, and for the first time, Tonio heard Guido's own voice, low, almost empty of sound, like a man whispering a melody he cannot sing.

  Tonio felt such love for him then he knew that as he lay back on the pillow he was fixing this moment in time. He would never forget it.

  When morning came Guido told him that he had greatly enlarged the solo he was to sing on Christmas Eve. In fact he had written an entire cantata, and now he must get Maestro Cavalla to approve it so it could be performed.

  It was noon before he returned to the practice room to say the Maestro, who had spent so much time this year with Domenico, was quite delighted with what Guido had done. Tonio would sing it. Now they must perfect it together. There was no time to lose.

  9

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE, the chapel of the conservatorio was crowded to overflowing.

  The air was chill and clean and Tonio had spent the early evening roaming the city to see all around him those life-sized presepi or cribs which the people of Naples so love, families handing down the statues from generation to generation. On rooftops, on porches, in convent gardens, everywhere, these splendid Nativity scenes unfolded with magnificent images of the Virgin, Saint Joseph, shepherds, and angels awaiting the Infant Savior.

  Never before had the pure meaning of this night been so palpable to Tonio. Since he had left the Veneto, he had found no faith in himself, no grace. Yet it seemed on this night the world would and could renew itself. Some ancient power lay behind the ritual, the hymns, these glorious images. And he could feel a quickening in him as midnight approached. Christ was coming into the world. The light would shine in the darkness. It had an eerie and heartrending power.

  But when he came downstairs in his black uniform, the famous red sash tied neatly in place, he felt the first trepidation for his performance, and knowing the effect of worry on the voice itself, was doubly stricken.

  Suddenly he couldn't remember a single word of Guido's cantata, or the melody. He reminded himself it was an extraordinary composition, that Guido was already proceeding to the harpsichord to conduct, and that he had the score in his hand, so it didn't matter if he couldn't remember. Then he almost smiled.

  What a gift this was. If he weren't terrified for his performance, what would he be feeling? The chorus of geldings will now raise its voice to heaven!

  But he was terrified, just like any other singer. And in a moment, just as Guido had told him, he would become calm, he would hear the opening bars, everything would be perfect.

  Yet as he moved along the side wall and down through the assembled boys to the front rail, he saw in the very first row of the congregation beneath him the small blond head of a young woman. She was bent over her programme, her dark taffeta dress forming a circle around her.

  He looked away at once. Impossible that it be she, on this night of all nights! But as if some grim hand, some bullying brutal hand were forcing him to it, he looked down again at her. He saw the delicate wisps all about her soft curls, and then slowly she raised her eyes, and for an instant they looked at one another.

  Surely she remembered those awkward moments in the Contessa's supper room, his drunken recklessness, which he himself would never forget. Yet there was no malice in her expression. It was musing, almost dreamy.

  A bitterness welled up in him, poisoning him, poisoning all the beguiling beauty of this place, the sanctuary with its rows of lights, its great masses of fragrant flowers.

  He attempted to steady himself. It was she who had looked away first, her small hands folding that rustling paper in her lap, and then he felt himself grow tense, only to weaken slowly and completely. He had the impression of the pain positively washing through him like water.

  Only the idea that he was trapped was real to him. And that the congregation had stopped its low murmuring, and that Guido had seated himself at the keyboard. The little orchestra was lifting its instruments. The thought came clearly to him. "I cannot do it." The music was nothing but a series of inscrutable marks. And then came the opening blasts of the trumpet.

  He looked out over the open space before him. He started singing.

  The notes climbed, they plunged down and rose up again, the words interwound effortlessly, the scroll of music closed shut in his hands. And quite suddenly, he knew it was all right. He was not lost in it; rather it was coming strongly and beautifully and he felt the first quiet rush of pride.

  When it all came to an end, he knew it had been a little triumph.

  The audience, not allowed to applaud, was shuffling, coughing, moving its feet, all subtle signals of unbounded approval. And Tonio could see it in the faces everywhere. As he followed the other castrati out of the chapel, he wanted only to be alone with Guido. That need was so great in him, he could hardly endure the congratulations, the warm hand clasps, Francesco murmuring to him that Domenico would have been sick with jealousy.

  When Guido took hold of him that would be praise enough, the rest he knew, and he was exhausted.

  Yet he returned quite deliberately to the stream of those leaving the chapel, and when that young blond-haired girl emerged, as he knew she would, he felt his face grown warm.

  The reality of her was so startling. In his memory she had paled, grown insignificant, and now here she was, her golden hair tumbled softly about her rounded neck, and her eyes, so infinitely serious, were a glimmer of dark blue. She wore a bit of violet ribbon at her throat which gave its color to her small mouth. Slightly pouted, succulent, it made him almost feel its fullness, as if he had pressed his thumb to her lips just before he had kissed her, and flustered, miserable, he looked away.

  An elderly gentleman accompanied her. Who was that, her father? And why hadn't she told him of that little incident in the supper room? Why hadn't she cried out?

  She was directly in front of him now, and as he looked up, he looked into her eyes.

  Without hesitating, he made her a correct bow. And then almost angrily, again he looked away. He felt himself strong and quieted and aware for the first time perhaps that of all the painful emotions of life, only sadness has such an exquisite luster. Now she was gone.

  The Maestro di Cappella had come forward and was clasping his hands:

  "Quite remarkable," he said. "And I had thought you were moving too fast."

  Then Tonio saw Guido, and Guido's happiness was so palpable that Tonio felt a small catch in his throat. The Contessa Lamberti was embracing him. As soon as she had gone away, he turned to Tonio and, gently ushering him down the corridor, seemed on the verge of kissing him when he thought the better of it, wisely.

  "What in the world happened to you up there! I thought you weren't going to start. You terrified me."

  "But I did start, perfectly in time," Tonio said. "Don't be angry."

  "Angry?" Guido laughed. "Do I seem angry?" He embraced Tonio impulsively and then let him go. "You were perfect," he whispered.

  The last of the guests were gone, and the front doors were being closed, and the Maestro di Cappella was in deep conversation with a gentleman who had his back turned.

  Guido had unlocked his door, but Tonio knew he would not retire without hearing what the Maestro had to say.

  But as the Maestro turned and guided his guest towards them, Tonio experienced a quiet shock. This was a Venetian, he realized at once, though how he knew he could not have said.

  And then, when it was too late to turn away, he saw that this blond, heavily built young man was Giacomo Lisani, Catrina's eldest son.

  Catrina had betrayed him! She had not come herself, but she had sent this one! And though he wanted to escape, he realized immediately that Giacomo appeared as miserable as he was.
Giacomo's cheeks were aflame, and his pale blue eyes downcast.

  And how he had changed from the awkward colt whom Tonio had known in Venice, that impetuous student from the University at Padua who was forever whispering and laughing with his brother, with an elbow in the ribs.

  The shadow of a beard darkened his face and neck ever so slightly, and it seemed a sense of duty weighed upon him as he made Tonio a deep, almost ceremonial bow.

  The Maestro was presenting him. It was impossible to avoid this. Then Giacomo looked directly to Tonio, and as quickly he looked away.

  Is it revulsion? Tonio thought coldly. Am I loathsome to him? But all consideration of himself and how he must appear to his cousin were slowly alchemized in a silent animosity that was the enemy of reason, while at the same time he felt a fascination with the workings of nature in Giacomo, workings he would never see in so many of the students who were his only real kin now.

  "Marc Antonio," Giacomo began. "I've been sent by your brother, Carlo, to see you."

  The Maestro was gone. Guido, too, had moved away, but he lingered just behind the young man, his eyes fixed on Tonio.

  And Tonio, hearing for the first time in so long the beautiful Venetian dialect, had to disentangle the meaning of Giacomo's words from the deep masculine timbre that seemed almost magical to him in this moment. How exquisite was that dialect, how like the gilt everywhere on the walls here, on the curlicues and the columns, on the painted doors. Giacomo's heavy, languid voice seemed composed of a dozen harmonious sounds, and each resonant word was touching Tonio like a child's soft fist pressed to Tonio's throat.

  "...is concerned about you," Giacomo continued. "He has heard a rumor of trouble here, that you had, shortly after your arrival, made a mortal enemy of another student, that that student made an attack on your person which you were forced to defend."

  Giacomo's brows came together in a caricature of deep concern; his tone, so pregnant with duty, had become condescending, though there was nothing in him but a tormented sincerity. Ah, youth, Tonio found himself thinking, just as if he were an old man.

  But a silence had fallen between them. And Tonio could see the sudden, clear warning in Guido's face. Guido's face said Danger.

  "Your brother is very concerned that perhaps you are not safe here, Marc Antonio," said Giacomo. "Your brother is concerned that you did not write of this occurrence to my mother and..."

  Yes, danger, Tonio thought, to my heart and my soul. For the first time since he had commenced to speak, Giacomo was again looking him in the eye.

  And at some intangible little point in this exchange, Tonio saw the whole of it, what it was about, what was wanted here. Concerned for his safety! This foolish young man didn't even guess the nature of his own mission!

  "If you are in any danger, Marc Antonio, you must tell us...."

  "No danger," Tonio said suddenly. And the coldness of his own voice astonished him, and yet he went on. "There was never any question of danger," he said, almost sneering, and his words had such an authority to them that he saw his cousin ever so slightly recoil. "The affair ended stupidly enough, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. You must tell my brother he worries about nothing, and that he has taken too much trouble and expense in sending you here."

  In the shadowy distance, Guido gave a desperate negative shake of the head.

  But Tonio had reached for his cousin's arm, and taking him firmly in hand, was turning him and leading him towards the front doors.

  Giacomo seemed mildly astonished. Far from offended at being dismissed, he was staring at Tonio with a vaguely concealed fascination, and as he spoke now there was almost a relief in his voice.

  "Then you are content here, Tonio," he said.

  "More than content." Tonio gave a short laugh. He moved Giacomo steadily down the corridor. "And you must tell your mother that she is not to worry, as well."

  "But did this boy who attacked you--"

  "This boy," Tonio said, "as you put it, stands now before a sterner judge than you or I. Say a prayer for him at mass. Now it's Christmas morning, and surely you do not wish to spend it here."

  Giacomo stopped at the door. This was all happening too fast for him. Yet as he hesitated, he could not prevent his eyes from moving rapidly, almost greedily over Tonio, and then he gave a small but very warm smile. "It's good to see you are so well, Tonio," he confessed. And it seemed just for a moment he wanted to say more, but thinking the better of it, he looked quickly to the floor. He seemed to grow smaller, to become exactly the boy he'd been at Venice, and Tonio realized silently, without the slightest change of expression, that his cousin was feeling love for him and pain.

  "You were always exceptional, Tonio," Giacomo said, almost in a whisper, and tentatively he raised his eyes to Tonio's eyes again.

  "And how is that, Giacomo?" Tonio said almost wearily, as though he were bearing all of this, without, however, being the slightest bit rude.

  "You were, well...you were always the little man," Giacomo said, and his manner invited Tonio to understand and to smile at this with him. "You seemed to grow up so quickly, it was as if you were older than us."

  "I didn't know very much about children." Tonio smiled.

  And when his cousin seemed lost suddenly, Tonio said:

  "And you are relieved to see that I have not suffered so far away from home?"

  "Oh, very relieved!" Giacomo said.

  Then when they looked at each other again, neither moved to look away. The silence lengthened, and the dim wavering light of the sconces made their shadows grow large, then small.

  "Goodbye, Giacomo," Tonio said softly. He held his cousin firmly by both arms.

  Giacomo could only stare at him for a moment. Then reaching into his velvet frock coat, he said, "But I have a letter for you, Tonio. I almost forgot. My mother would be so angry!" He put the letter in Tonio's hands. "And your singing..." he started. "In the chapel. I wish, I wish I knew the language of music so I could tell you what it was like."

  "The language of music is only sounds, Giacomo," Tonio answered. And without hesitation they embraced.

  Guido was lighting the candles when he stepped into the room. And for a long moment, they stood locked in each other's arms.

  But the letter was in Tonio's hand, and he couldn't dismiss it from his mind. And when he drew away to sit down with it at the table, he saw for the first time the mingled concern and anger in Guido's face.

  "I know, I know," Tonio whispered, tearing open the parchment envelope. It bore Catrina's seal.

  "Do you know?" Guido bore down on him, but despite the anger in his voice, his hands were caressing. And he pressed his lips to Tonio's head. "Your brother sent him here to see to your spirit!" he whispered. "Couldn't you have played the shy, diffident little student just this once?"

  "Shy, diffident eunuch," Tonio answered. "Say it, for that is what you mean. And I will not play it for anyone. I cannot! So let him go back to Venice and tell my brother what he will. Good God, he heard me singing with children and angels, did he not? He saw the obedient student, the obedient gelding, was that not enough?"

  The letter was indecipherable before his eyes in the dim light. He had vowed a thousand times never to speak of these things to any living being, not to the priest in the confessional, not anyone, but had he been a fool to think that Guido had never guessed? And sitting still, the letter flat on the table beneath his hand, he could all but feel the weight of Guido's unspoken words as he saw the shadow of Guido moving slowly back and forth across the room.

  It seemed an age he sat there after he had finished.

  Then he read it again. And when he was finished this time, he lifted it, holding it to the cool flame of the candle until the fire burned hotter, the parchment crackled, was consumed, and turned to ash.

  Guido was watching him. Yet it seemed all the familiar furnishings of this room were alien to him. He felt contained and cold and part of nothing. And as he looked at Guido, it was as if h
e did not know this man with whom he'd only just been quarreling, this man whose lips he could still feel on his own. He did not know him, nor why they were both of them here.

  He looked away, coldly aware of the effect of his expression on Guido, but he was looking now into his brother's face. No, his father's face, he thought with the thinnest smile. Father, brother, and beyond it a backdrop of unilluminated emptiness that was very simply the end of life.

  And all the church bells of Naples were ringing, this was Christmas morning, and their lovely monotonous pealing came through the walls like the rhythm of a pulse. Yet he could feel nothing, he could taste nothing. He could want nothing, save suddenly that this time should come to its inevitable end.

  Why had he let himself forget what lay ahead of him? How had he managed to live as others lived, to hunger, to thirst, and to love?

  Guido had poured the wine. He had placed the glass at Tonio's right hand. The fragrance of the grape filled the room, and Tonio, sitting back in the chair, looked dully from the corner of his eye at the letter gone to ashes and the food that lay undisturbed, the artifact of itself, on a silver plate.

  He had married her.

  Married her! That was what the letter had said.

  Decorous, simple, hardly more than an announcement. He had married her! Tonio felt his teeth clench until he was in pain, and he saw nothing of this room anymore. Married his father's wife, married the mother of his bastard son, married her before Doge and Council and Senate and lords and ladies of Venice. He had married her! And now he would breed those strong sons, my little brothers! Those Giacomos, those brothers, brothers, always beyond reach, as if the very idea of fraternity were some immense fiction. Others are part of it, others are locked arm in arm. Magnificent illusion.

  "Tonio, whatever it was, put it out of your mind," came Guido's voice, soft, unobtrusive, behind him. "Put them all out of your mind. They reach across the miles yet to cut you. Don't let them."

  "Are you my brother?" Tonio whispered. "Tell me this...." He took Guido's hand. "Are you my brother?"