But her face was changing. It had darkened and wrinkled in a terrible little frown. She bowed her head, and shrinking back, she turned away from him as if falling from a great height.
He was stricken watching her, seeing her recoil. And then helplessly, he saw her move away, straightening when she had covered some distance, her yellow hair a great gleaming mass just before she vanished in the dark.
Once inside his room, he rested gently against the closed door. He pressed his forehead to the hard enameled wood.
Miserable with shame, he could not believe it had come to this! It had seemed over the years they had been partners in some wondrous dance, and always there had been the terrifying promise of their coming together.
And it had come only to this!
That she had offered herself was beyond question, and bitter, humiliated, he knew now just what he was, and she knew it, too. And if there was any mercy left for him, Guido and the Contessa would come soon to tell him that he was going to Rome, where he would never see her again.
He had fallen asleep, fully dressed, the blanket over his shoulder, before Guido came. He awoke to see Guido and the Contessa standing over him and the Contessa said:
"Sit up, beautiful child, you must make me a promise."
Guido didn't even look at him. He moved about the room as if dreaming, his lips pressed together and then slack in a secret monologue.
"What is it? What's happened?" Tonio said sleepily. He saw his blond-haired girl for an instant, and then she was gone.
He felt he could endure this waiting no longer.
"Tell me," he said. "Now."
"Ah, but first, beautiful child," she was saying in that measured and polite way of hers, "promise me, promise me, that when you are very famous you will tell everyone that it was in my house in Naples that you first sang."
"Famous?" He sat up, as the Contessa nestled beside him and pressed her lips to his cheek.
"My beautiful child," she said, "I have just written to my cousin, the Cardinal Calvino in Rome; he will be expecting you, and you will live with him as long as you like.
"Guido wants to leave immediately. He wants to get to know the audiences; he wants to do the work there. And I will come, too, of course, on opening night to see you both. Oh, but beautiful child, it is all arranged now; you are to make your first appearance as principal singer in Guido's opera in the Teatro Argentina in Rome on the first of the year."
16
IT WAS WELL OVER a fortnight before the day of departure arrived.
Everything was packed. Tonio's rooms were empty save for the magnificent harpsichord which he was leaving as a gift for the Maestro di Cappella, and the carriages, laden with trunks, were waiting in the stable yard.
Tonio stood alone at his window, looking out through the dusty cloister into the garden, for the last time.
He had dreaded the moment of parting with Paolo, and it had been as bad as he expected. Paolo had been mute, spiritless. There was no substance to the words he uttered. That Tonio and Guido were leaving him was more than he could bear, and though he was gone now, Tonio knew that he could not leave Paolo like this.
In fact, a little scheme was forming in Tonio's mind, but he was afraid the scheme would not work. And he lapsed for a moment into a confusion of thoughts just as Maestro Cavalla came into the empty room.
"Well, this is the painful moment," sighed the Maestro.
Tonio's glance was full of affection, but he didn't speak. He watched the Maestro run his fingers over the delicately painted case of the harpsichord. It gave Tonio deep pleasure to know the Maestro treasured this gift.
"Has it been easier for the little trick we played on you at the Contessa's?" the Maestro asked. "I had hoped it would be."
Tonio only smiled. Easier, yes, it had been easier.
But there was a little spasm in his face now that meant pain and he wondered if the Maestro could see it. He had an uneasy feeling about the Maestro suddenly. The Maestro was deep in thought; something more than a farewell was pressing on his mind.
"What are you thinking?" the Maestro asked him. "Tell me."
"It's nothing as complex as you might suppose," Tonio answered softly. "I'm thinking what they all think when they leave you." And when he saw the question still in the Maestro's face, Tonio confessed, "I'm afraid I'm going to fail in Rome."
His eyes shifted to the garden again, and he was conscious of having said something that was not entirely true. A greater confusion was pressing on him. It had to do with life and all that life had to offer him, and how much he wanted it, and how much he would have liked to forget.
Once three years ago he'd told himself he would sing for his own pleasure, and how simple that had sounded, how simple that had seemed.
Now he wanted to be the greatest singer in Italy. He wanted Guido to write the finest opera anyone had ever heard. And he was afraid, afraid for both of them, and he could not help but wonder had he always feared this moment, ever since he'd known what was left to him, and had that fear been so great he had had to construct some other, darker purpose for his life?
He thought dimly of his old resolves, his hatreds, those dark vows.
But life was a magnificent snare, and now all he could think about was life. He wanted desperately to be on the road to Rome.
Guido was so excited there was no feeling to his farewells. Night and day, he'd been scribbling scenes for his opera. He was always humming to himself, and at times when they were not working, the two of them would look at each other, with that mingled fear and exhilaration that was shared by no one else.
"You won't fail," the Maestro said gently. "I would not let you go if I thought you would."
Tonio nodded. But his eyes remained fixed on the cloister and the archway filled with leaves. Others had left here with high hopes; they'd left with the Maestro's blessing, only to return in defeat.
But do any of them feel failure as we feel it, Tonio mused, we who are mutilated and tormented so much for that moment of success? He felt a quiet communion with those other singers; he felt a deepening of the brotherhood he had always known with those who struggled here at his side.
And yet as he heard the Maestro draw closer, as he became vaguely aware that the Maestro was troubled and brooding, another perception was just breaking in Tonio's mind.
What if it were a triumph? What if it were exactly as he imagined it? The audience on its feet, those inundations of applause. Just for a second, he imagined it over and done, an incontestable victory, and he saw a road unwinding out from that moment, a road that was life itself.
It was life he saw unwinding, and he felt such fear he was appalled.
"God," he whispered, but the Maestro didn't hear him. He didn't hear himself. He gave a little shake of his head.
The Maestro touched him on the shoulder, and turning, he allowed himself to be separated from his secret self, and he looked into the Maestro's face.
The Maestro was troubled.
"We must talk," said the Maestro resolutely, "before you leave."
"Talk?" Tonio felt an uncertainty. It was so difficult to say farewell. What more did the Maestro want? And then there was Paolo. Tonio knew he could not leave Paolo here.
"I told you once," said the Maestro, "that I knew what had been done to you."
"And I told you," Tonio answered suddenly, "that you did not." He felt an old anger rise, and he struggled to quiet it. He felt only love for this man now.
Yet the Maestro went on.
"I know why you have been patient all these years with those who sent you here...."
"You know nothing." Tonio struggled to be courteous. "And why do you press me now when for so long you've been quiet?"
"I tell you I know, as well as others know. Do you think we are fools here, that stage intrigue is all we understand? I know. I have always known. And I know now your brother in the Republic of Venice has two healthy sons. And I know you have never sent assassins against him; there has
never been a particle of gossip in the Veneto of such an attempt to trouble his sleep."
Tonio felt these words as if they were a series of physical blows. For three years he had never spoken of this to anyone; it was an agony to hear these words spoken aloud in this room.
He knew his anger was transforming him and he turned on the Maestro as coldly and harshly as he could: "Don't talk of these things to me!" he insisted. "I will not speak of them to you."
Yet the Maestro would not stop.
"Tonio, I know too this man is guarded day and night by a band of the roughest bravos he can hire. It's the gossip they are never, even in his own house, beyond the sound of his voice...."
Tonio moved towards the door.
But the Maestro caught him and gently forced him to remain. For one second the strength of the man's will was measured against Tonio's, and then Tonio, shaken and furious, bowed his head.
"Why must we quarrel like this?" he asked softly. "Why can we not embrace and say farewell?"
"But we are not quarreling," the Maestro said. "I tell you I know you mean to go after your brother on your own." His tone had dropped in a whisper. And he was so close to Tonio that Tonio could feel the Maestro's breath on his face. "But this man waits for you as a spider waits," the Maestro said. "And the decree of banishment against you has made the entire city of Venice his web. He will destroy you if you move against him."
"No more," Tonio said. He was now so angry he could not trust his voice, but he could see the Maestro had little grasp of the effect of his own words.
"You know nothing of me," Tonio said, "of what I came from, of why I am here. And I will not stand here and listen to you speak of these things as if they were common things! You will not talk of them in the same tone you take to chastise your students! You will not voice your distress as if this were merely the failure of an opera, the passing of a monarch in some distant land!"
"I don't mean to speak of them lightly," the Maestro insisted. "For God's sakes, will you hear me? Send other men to do this deed! Send men as ruthless as those who are guarding him. These bravos are trained assassins; send against them their own kind."
Tonio struggled to free himself, but he was incapable of raising his hand against this man. Bravos, this man was telling him about bravos and what they were! Had he not awakened enough nights to find himself still in that town of Flovigo struggling against those hardened and brutal men? He could feel their hands on him, he could smell their breath; he could remember his powerlessness in those moments and the knife that cut him; he would never in all his life forget.
"Tonio, if I am wrong," said the Maestro, "if you have sent assassins and if they have failed, then surely you must know you cannot accomplish this yourself."
The Maestro's grip was loosened, but Tonio was for the moment spent. He was looking away; and he had seldom felt more alone since those early days. He could not now remember all that had just been said; his confusion had obliterated much of it, save the feeling that the Maestro would go on and on, understanding so little while imagining himself to understand so much.
"If you were some common singer..." The Maestro sighed. "If yours were not the voice they all dream of, I would say then do what you must."
He let go of Tonio. He let his hand drop to his side.
"Oh, I have been remiss," he said, "in that I have not tried to understand you before now. You seemed so content, so happy here."
"And was it so unnatural that I should be content!" Tonio demanded. "Was it so wrong that I should find happiness? But did you think they cut the spirit out of me with all the rest?
"You have ruled in this principality of geldings too long without ever being part of it. You have forgotten what life is like! Do you think all the world is made up of maimed creatures who wander forth bleeding to pursue their destiny! This is not life!"
"Your voice is your life! It's been your life since you came here! Do you want me to deny my senses!" the Maestro implored.
"No." Tonio shook his head. "That is art, that is the painted stage, and the music, and the little world we have made for ourselves, but that is not life! If you would talk of my brother to me, of what was done to me, then you must talk of life. And I tell you what was done to me must be avenged. Any man out there in the street would understand it. Why is it so hard for you?"
The Maestro was chastened but he did not give in.
"You're not speaking of life if you go to Venice to kill your brother," he whispered. "You are speaking of death, and that death will not be his, it will be yours. Oh, would you were but one of the others. Would you were not what you are."
"I am only a man." Tonio sighed. "That is all I am. That is what I was born to be, and what I've become no matter what was done to prevent it. And I tell you, when all is said and done, a man does not stand for what was done to me."
The Maestro turned away. He seemed for the moment unable to compose himself, and in that time, a cold quiet settled over the room. Tonio, exhausted, rested his weight against the wall, seeing again the arch of the cloister and those green leaves.
It seemed he was visited by a thousand random impressions, as if the mind could empty itself of thought and see visions, and those visions were made up of concrete objects, glistening with meaning: table silver, the candles on a chapel altar, wedding veils, and infants' cradles, the soft rustle of silk when women embraced. The great fabric that was Venice was a backdrop for this vision, and there was in it mingled sounds, the cry of trumpets, the scent of sea breeze.
What did I want a moment ago, he was thinking. He tried to transport himself into that little whirlwind of excitement that existed eternally behind the curtain of a theatrical stage; he could smell the paint, the powder, hear the sharp, shrill violins beyond the curtain, hear the rumble of bare boards. What was I thinking? He heard his own voice in a succession of pure notes that seemed to have nothing to do with men and women or life and death. His lips didn't move with his thoughts.
It seemed a long time before the Maestro turned back.
And Tonio's eyes were glazed with tears.
"I didn't want to leave you like this," Tonio said softly, defeated. "You're angry with me now and I love you. I have loved you since I came."
"How little you know of me," said the Maestro. "I have never been angry with you. And the love I feel for you has few rivals here."
He approached Tonio, but he hesitated to embrace him and in that moment Tonio was conscious of the man's physical presence, that strength and roughness that was nothing but the characteristic of ordinary men.
He was conscious too of his own appearance as if he could see his own unnatural skin and youth mirrored in the man's gaze.
"I had words to say before we parted," Tonio said. "I wanted so much to thank--"
"No need for such words. I'll be in Rome to see you on the stage soon enough."
"But there was something more," Tonio said, his eyes lingering on the Maestro. "Something I wanted to ask of you, and I wish now that I had not waited so long. You might not grant my request, and to me it means the world."
"The world?" the Maestro asked. "You tell me that even if it means your death you will kill your brother, and yet you speak of something that means the world?"
He turned to look at Tonio.
"Years ago I tried to tell you what the world was, not the world you came from, but the world you might conquer with your voice. I thought you had listened to me. But you are a great singer, yes, a great singer, and you would turn your back on the world."
"In time, Maestro, in time," Tonio said, his voice sharpened ever so slightly by anger again. "All men die in time," he insisted. "I am different only in that I may name the place with certainty when I choose. I may go home to death and leave my life circumscribed behind me. In time. But for now I live and breathe as anyone else."
"Then tell me what you want," said the Maestro. "If it means the world to you, then it means time, and I would give you all the time in the world."
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"Maestro, I want Paolo. I want to take him with me to Rome."
And when he saw the shock, the disapproval in the Maestro's face, he added quickly:
"Maestro, I'll care for him, you know that, and even if I should send him back to you someday, he won't be the worse for having been with me. And if there is one enemy of the rancor I feel against those who made me what I am, it is love for others. Love for Guido, and Paolo, and for you."
Paolo was in the very back of the chapel when Tonio found him. He was sitting slumped in the chair, his little snub-nosed face stained with tears. His black eyes were fixed on the tabernacle and when he saw that Tonio had come again, that one farewell was not enough, he felt betrayed.
He turned away.
"Be still and listen to me," Tonio said. He smoothed back the boy's dark brown hair and rested his hand on Paolo's neck. It felt fragile to him; the boy felt fragile. And then he was so overcome with love for Paolo that for a moment he did not speak. The warm air of the chapel was full of the scent of wax and incense, and it seemed the gilded altar drained all the sun it could from the dusty shafts of light that cut to the marble floor.
"Close your eyes and dream for a moment," Tonio whispered. "Do you want to live in a fine palazzo? Do you want to ride in fine carriages and dine on silver plate? Do you want for there to be jewels on your fingers? Do you want to wear satins and silks? Do you want to live with me and with Guido? Do you want to come with us to Rome?"
The boy turned on him with an expression so savage his breath was taken away.
"That's not possible!" Paolo said in a strangled voice as if it were an oath.
"But it is possible," Tonio said. "Anything is possible. When you least expect it, it's possible, to be sure."
And as belief and trust came into Paolo's face, as he moved to lock his arms around Tonio, Tonio drew him up.
"Come," he said. "If you have anything in this place you want to take with you, get it now."
It was noon when the carriages finally commenced to roll. Guido, Paolo, and Tonio were in the first, while behind came the servants and the great bulk of the trunks.
And as they drove down through the Via di Toledo towards the sea for one last glimpse of the city itself, Tonio could not take his eyes off the bluish camelback of Vesuvius sending its faint plume of smoke into the sky.