Cry to Heaven Page 15

  "Your father?" Carlo whispered. "Your father!" He spat the words, and then he seemed on the verge of some hysteria.

  "Look at me, Marc Antonio." He bore down on Tonio. "Look at me. I am your father!"

  Tonio shut his eyes.

  But the voice went on louder, thinner, on the edge of breaking:

  "She was carrying you in her body when she came into this house, you are the child of my love for her! I am your father, and I stand here with my bastard son placed before me! Do you hear me? Does God hear me? You are my son and you have been placed before me. That is what she can and must tell you!"

  He stopped, the voice strangled in his throat.

  And as Tonio opened his eyes, he saw through the glimmer of his tears that Carlo's face was a mask of pain, and that Marianna stood beside him, putting up her frantic hands to cover his mouth. With a great shove, Carlo sent her backwards.

  "He stole my wife from me," Carlo cried. "He stole my son from me, this house he stole from me, Venice he took, and my youth, and I tell you he shall not prevail any longer! Look at me, Tonio, look at me! Yield to me! Or so help me God, I declare I cannot be held to account for what happens to you!"

  Tonio shuddered.

  It was as if these words were striking him physically, and yet they receded so fast, he could scarce remember them, their sound, their literal meaning. There was only a relentless, muted hammering.

  And all around him in this room there seemed a sadness building and building. It was like a great cloud collecting its deadly momentum. It shrouded him. It shut them away, concealing them. And it left him alone here in this shadowy place, staring mutely at the blurred lights that made their slow passage on the invisible stream beyond those windows that was the water.

  He had known it. He had known it when this man first took him in his arms, he had heard it pressing through his dreams, he had known it when his mother ran about that darkened room whispering, "Shut the doors, shut the doors," yes, he had known it.

  Yet always, always, there had been the chance that it was not true, that it was but some groundless nightmare, some foul connection made more of imagination than real happening.

  But it was true. And if it was, then Andrea had known it also.

  It did not matter what happened now in this place. It did not matter if he turned to go, or what he said. It seemed he had no will, no purpose. It did not matter that somewhere someone had given a voice to this sadness. It was his mother weeping.

  "You mark my words," Carlo whispered.

  Dimly Carlo materialized again before him.

  "Oh, what is this, your words?" Tonio sighed. My father, this man. This man! "Is this your threat of death?" Tonio whispered. He righted himself peering steadily forward. "Your first council to me and we two so briefly reconciled as father and son!"

  "You mark my council!" Carlo cried. "Say you cannot marry. Say you will take Holy Orders. Say the doctors have found you ill formed, I do not care! But say it, and yield to me!"

  "Those are lies," Tonio answered. "I cannot speak them." He was so weary. My father. The thought obliterated all reason, and somewhere far, far beyond his reach stood Andrea, receding into chaos. And he knew the most bitter, the most terrible, terrible disappointment that he was not Andrea's son. And this man, frenzied, desperate, standing before him, imploring him.

  "I was not born your bastard." Tonio struggled. It was such an agony to speak these words. "I was born Andrea's son under this roof and under the law. And I can do nothing to change that, though you spread your abominations from one end of the Veneto to the other. I am Marc Antonio Treschi, and Andrea has given me my charge, and I will not bear his curse from heaven, nor the curse of those around us who do not know the half of it!"

  "You go against your father!" Carlo roared. "You bear my curse!"

  "So be it, then!" Tonio's voice rose. It was the greatest struggle of his life to remain here, to continue it, to answer once and for all. "I cannot go against this house, this family, and the man who knew all of this and chose to plot the course for both of us!"

  "Ah, such loyalty." Carlo seemed to sigh and to tremble, his lips drawn back in a smile. "No matter what your hatred for me, your will to destroy me, you would never go against this house!"

  "I do not hate you!" Tonio declared.

  And it seemed that Carlo, caught off guard by the edge of this cry, looked up in one desperate moment of feeling.

  "And I have never hated you," he gasped as if just realizing it for the first time. "Marc Antonio," he said, and before Tonio could stop him, Carlo had taken him by both arms, and they were so close they might have embraced, they might have kissed.

  The look on Carlo's face was astonishment and almost one of horror. "Marc Antonio," he said, his voice breaking, "I never hated you...."

  5

  IT WAS RAINING. One of the last rains of the spring perhaps. Because it was so warm nobody much minded. The piazza was silver, and then a silvery blue in the rain, and from time to time the great stone floor seemed a solid sheet of shimmering water. Draped figures darted here and there across the five arches of San Marco. And the lights in the open coffeehouses were smoky.

  Guido was not quite as drunk as he wanted to be. He disliked the din and glare of this place and at the same time he felt safe in it. He had just received another installment of his allowance from Naples, and was wondering if he should leave for Verona and Padua. This city was magnificent, the only place he had encountered in his roamings that was all that men said it was. And yet it was too dense, too dark, too confining. Night after night he homed to the piazza merely to see that vast stretch of ground and sky and feel that he could breathe freely.

  He watched the rain slant down under the arches of the arcade. A dark shape crowded the door, but then it passed into the room. And again there was the rain swept in by the wind so that he could almost feel it on his warm face and on the backs of his hands which were folded before him. He drained the glass. He shut his eyes.

  Then he opened them abruptly, because someone was seated beside him.

  He turned slowly, cautiously, and saw a man with a commonplace and brutal face, his beard so roughly shaved that it left a hide of bluish bristle.

  "Has the maestro from Naples found what he was looking for?" asked the man under his breath.

  Guido took his time before answering. He took a swallow of white wine. Then he followed it with a swallow of scalding hot coffee. He liked the coffee cutting through the softness created in him by the wine.

  "I don't know you," he said, looking at the open door. "How is it you know me?"

  "I have a pupil who will interest you. He wishes to be taken at once by you to Naples."

  "Don't be so certain he will interest me," said Guido. "And who is he that he tells me to take him to Naples?"

  "You'd be a fool not to be interested," said the man. He had drawn so close to Guido that Guido could feel his breath. And smell it also.

  Guido's eyes turned mechanically to the side until he was staring at the man. "Come to the point," he said, "or get away from me."

  The man made a little smile that disfigured his face. "Some eunuch you are," he muttered.

  Guido's hand moved very slowly but obviously under his cape until he closed his fingers around the handle of the stiletto. And he smiled, having no real appreciation of how truly appalling were the contrasts in his face, the sensuous mouth, the flattened nose, and the eyes which alone might have been swimming and pretty.

  "Listen to me," came the man's slow murmur. "And if you ever tell anyone what I have to say, it would be better for you if you had never set foot in this city." He glanced to the door; then he continued. "The boy is highborn. He wishes to make a great sacrifice for his voice. But there are those who might try to dissuade him. It must be done with delicacy and very quickly. And it is his wish to leave as soon as it is done, do you follow me? There is a town south of Venice called Flovigo. Go there tonight, to the hostelry. And the boy will come to you."<
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  "What boy? Who?" Guido's eyes narrowed. "The parents must consent to this. The inquisitors of state would--"

  "I am a Venetian." The man's smile never wavered. "And you are not a Venetian. You take the boy to Naples, that's enough."

  "Tell me who this boy is now!" Guido's voice had the tone of a threat.

  "You know him. You heard him this afternoon in San Marco. You've heard him with his vagabond singers in the streets."

  "I don't believe you!" Guido whispered.

  The man showed a leather purse to Guido. "Go to your inn," he said. "Prepare to leave immediately."

  For a moment, Guido stood in the rain outside his door as if it might bring him back to his senses. He was thinking with portions of his mind he had not used in all his life; he felt the unusual exhilaration of cunning. Part of him said go at once and get any ship out of here that will take you. Another said what is going to happen will happen whether you are here to benefit from it or not. But what exactly is going to happen? He was startled when he felt a hand on his elbow. He had not even seen this person approaching. But through the thin chilling veil of rain, he could not even perceive this man's expression. All he felt was the hand on his arm causing him immediate pain as the voice whispered in his ear, "Maestro, come, now."

  It was in the tavern that Tonio first caught sight of the three of them.

  He was very drunk. He had been upstairs with Bettina, and coming down now into the smoky public room, he had slumped at a bench against the wall, unable to move farther. He must talk to Ernestino, explain to him that tonight he could not go with him or the others. These mingled horrors could find no voice. Such music had not yet been written.

  And as he peered into this dingy gloom an odd thought came to him; he should have lost consciousness by this time. He had never before drunk so much and remained awake to witness his own disintegration.

  Everything flickered that was this room, heavy bodies shifting under soot-darkened lamps, and the tankard descending in front of him.

  He was about to drink when he saw the faces of those men, picked them out one by one, each it seemed at an angle so that it showed him the scrutiny of a single eye.

  And in that moment when he linked the three of these men together in the recognition of who and what they were, he felt the stab of panic through the drunkenness which would have pushed him to despair.

  Nothing changed in the room. He struggled to keep his eyes open. He even lifted the wine and drank it down without realizing what he was doing. And then he felt himself pitched forward glaring at one of these men as if in challenge. And then his head hit the wall in back.

  A plan was struggling to find its form. He could not however reason it out. It involved determining how far he was from the Palazzo Lisani and which was the surest route. He lifted his hand as if attempting to grasp the threads that led him through calli and canals, and then all of this vanished. He saw one of these men coming towards him.

  He moved his lips in the form of words but in this din he heard nothing of what he said, which was "My brother is going to have me killed." He said this with wonder. Wonder that it was in fact happening and wonder that until this very moment he had not really believed it possible!

  Carlo? Carlo who wanted so desperately that Tonio understand? This was incomprehensible. But it was happening! He had to get out of this place.

  And this demon of a bravo had settled opposite him, his hulking shoulders obliterating the entire tavern as his immense face drew closer: "Come on home, Signore...." he whispered. "Your brother must speak to you."

  "Ooooh, no." Tonio shook his head.

  He reached up to beckon for Bettina and he felt himself drawn up as if he were weightless, his feet tumbling over tangled limbs, until suddenly he was pulled into the calle. He gulped for air. The rain fell down in little slaps on his face. And attempting to stand, he slipped back against the damp wall.

  But cautiously turning his head, he realized he was free.

  He burst into a run.

  He could feel pain in his feet pushing through numbness, but he knew that he was moving fast, dashing in fact, towards the mist which was the canal. And for one instant he pitched forward to see the lanterns at the landing before he was drawn back, struggling, into the dark. He had his stiletto out and dug it into something soft. Then it was clattering on the ground. And his mouth was being wrenched open while he was held.

  He convulsed his body against this with all his strength. Then gagging, struggling for breath as a wedge was forced between his teeth, he felt the first draft of wine.

  Once he threw it back up with a convulsion that encircled his ribs with pain. But then it came again. He felt if he couldn't close his mouth or get loose he would go mad. Or drown.

  Guido was not asleep. He was in that state which is more restful, from time to time, than sleep, because it can be savored. Lying on his back in this small monastic room in the tiny town of Flovigo, he was staring at the wooden shuttered window which he had opened to the spring rain.

  The sky was lightening. It was perhaps an hour before dawn. And though ordinarily he would have been cold (he was fully dressed but the wind brought the rain into the room) he was not cold. Rather the air made an icing on his skin which didn't penetrate to the bone.

  And for several hours now he had been thinking, and not thinking at the same time. In fact, never in his life had his mind seemed so empty and yet so full.

  He knew things. But he did not think about them, though over and over again they passed through his mind.

  He knew, for example, that in Venice the spies of the inquisitors of state were everywhere; they knew who ate meat on Friday and who beat his wife. And the officers of the inquisitors of state could arrest anyone anytime, secretly, and take him to a prison where he might be executed by poison or strangulation or drowning in the night.

  He knew that the Treschi were a powerful family. He knew that Tonio was the favored son.

  He knew that the laws of many a place in Italy forbade the castration of children unless there was some medical reason given for it, unless there was the consent of the parents and of the boy.

  He knew that with the poor this meant absolutely nothing.

  He knew that with the rich the operation was unheard of.

  He knew that in this remote village, he was still in the Venetian State.

  He wanted to get out of the Venetian State. He understood the corruption of southern Italy. He did not understand the corruption of this place.

  And he knew too that every eunuch he'd ever known had been cut as a small boy, almost as soon as the testicles gained their first weight. But he did not know the reason for this, whether it was wise for the voice, or wise for just getting the operation done.

  He knew that Tonio Treschi was fifteen. He knew that the voice generally drops three years after that. That the voice he had heard in the church was still unchanged, utterly pure.

  He knew all of this. And he did not think about it. Nor did he think about the future, what might happen to him in an hour or in a day.

  Then from time to time, he stopped knowing all this. And drifted into remembering--again without analysis--the first time he had heard Tonio Treschi's voice.

  *

  It had been a misty night, and he had been lying on his bed, just as he was now in this room in Flovigo, fully dressed with the window open. The worst cold of winter was past and it would soon be mild enough to travel without so much discomfort.

  He would regret leaving Venice, which had both enchanted and repelled him. He had been awed by its prosperous merchant class, and by its secretive and elaborate government. Day after day he had wandered about the Broglio and the piazza watching all the spectacle and ceremony attached to the Offices of State. And the dilettanti here, those rich musicians who were as skilled and talented as any he had ever known, had been uncommonly gracious to him.

  But it was time to leave here. Time to go home to Naples with the two boys he had left waiti
ng for him in Florence. He could not at this time bear to think about them; they were neither of them exceptional. And he feared perhaps some reproach from his superiors.

  But he didn't care. He was too weary from all this. It would be good to be teaching again, no matter what the odds. He wanted to be in Naples, in his rooms at the conservatorio where he had lived all his life.

  Then he had heard this singing.

  At first it seemed no more than the usual street entertainment. It was good, it was mildly interesting. But he heard plenty of it in Naples.

  But then a soprano had risen above the rest, startling him with its exquisite tone and its remarkable agility.

  He had gotten out of bed and gone to the window.

  The walls rising before him shut out the sky. And below, circling the torches and lanterns along the canal, he saw a mist curling, rising. It was like something alive, this mist following as it did the path of water, and seeking out the light with tentacles. He did not like the sight of it.

  He suddenly felt trapped in this labyrinthine place and eager for the open air, the spectacle of stars sliding down the curve of the sky into the Bay of Naples.

  But this voice, this voice that seemed to be rising with the mist was causing him pain! And it was the first time in his life that he had encountered any voice he could not identify. Was this man, woman, or child?

  Its coloratura was so light and flexible that it might be a woman. But no. It had that sharp, indefinable edge that was masculine. And it was young, very young. But who would have bothered to train a mere boy like this? Who would have lavished on him so many secrets?

  The voice was perfectly on the note, weaving in and out of the violins that accompanied it, rising above them, dipping down, embellishing effortlessly.

  And it did not have the sound of brass in it, this voice; it suggested wood rather than brass, the slightly darkened sound of a violin rather than the flatter sound of the trumpet.

  It was a castrato, it had to be!

  He was caught for a moment between the urge to go and seek it, and the desire merely to listen to it. That one so obviously young could sing with this feeling was simply out of the question. And yet he was hearing it. It was arresting him, transporting him, this voice with its acrobatic flexibility colored by so much sadness.