Cry to Heaven Page 38

  The carriage swayed onto the Molo. The glaring sea seemed to fuse itself with the horizon. And as they turned north, the mountain was lost.

  And hours later, it was Tonio and only Tonio who was crying as night fell over the endless and beautiful wheat fields of Campania, and the carriage struggled on towards the gates of Rome.

  PART V

  1

  THE CARDINAL CALVINO sent for them as soon as they arrived. Neither Tonio nor Guido had expected this immediate courtesy, and with Paolo hurrying after them, they followed the Cardinal's black-robed secretary upstairs.

  Nothing Guido had ever seen at Venice or Naples quite prepared him for this immense palazzo right in the center of Rome, no more than twenty minutes' stroll from the Vatican in one direction, and perhaps the same distance from the Piazza di Spagna on the right. Its somber yellowish exterior enclosed corridors lined with antique sculptures, walls hung with Flemish tapestries, and courtyards virtually peopled with Greek and Roman fragments as well as colossal modern statues guarding gateways and fountains and ponds.

  Noblemen were milling about in great numbers, clerics in cassocks came and went, while a long library revealed itself through one pair of double doors after another in which black-clad clerks bent over their quill pens.

  But it was the Cardinal himself who proved the most interesting surprise. It was rumored he was deeply religious, having come up from the priesthood, which was not so common for a cardinal, and that he was a great favorite with the people, who were always hanging about outside to see his carriage pass.

  The poor of Rome were his special concern; he was the patron of numerous orphanages and charitable institutions which he visited constantly; and sometimes, letting his crimson robes drag in the mud, his retinue waiting, he visited in hovels, drank wine with workingmen and their wives; he kissed the children. He gave of his own wealth daily to those in need.

  He was almost fifty now, and Guido anticipated great austerity in him, some pious contradiction to this highly polished splendor, the floors patterned so freely in varicolored marble they rivaled the floors of San Pietro itself.

  But the Cardinal exuded good humor.

  His eyes crinkled with immediate cheerfulness, a vitality that seemed the fusion of grace and love for everyone he saw.

  A sparely built man with hair of an ashen color, he had the smoothest eyelids Guido had ever seen. They had no indentation, no fold. And with the few lines in his face, so seemingly deliberate, he had a graven look, like those gaunt figures on very old churches who in this time appear emaciated and distorted, often grim.

  But there was nothing about him that was grim.

  Surrounded by brilliantly clad noblemen who gave way at his command like water, he beckoned for Guido to come in. Allowing his ring to be kissed, he then embraced Guido, saying that his cousin's musicians must live in his house as long as they desired.

  His body was full of movement, his eyes narrow with gaiety.

  "Do you need instruments?" he asked. "I shall be happy to send for them. You have only to tell my secretary, and he will obtain for you what you want."

  He took Paolo's face in his hands and carefully ran his thumb over Paolo's cheek, and Paolo warmed to this as was his nature, drawing up instinctively as the Cardinal pressed him against his long crimson robe.

  "But where is your singer?" he asked.

  And when he looked up at Tonio, he appeared to see him for the first time.

  There was an undisguised moment of absorption, a change in the Cardinal which Guido could almost feel. It seemed those around him must surely notice it, as Tonio stepped forward to kiss the Cardinal's ring.

  Tonio was only slightly disheveled from the carriage, his dark green velvet frock coat was only a little dusty, and he had for Guido the look of an angel in mortal dress. His increasing height had never made him awkward, and the last two years of fencing had caused him to move almost like a dancer, all of his gestures seemingly hypnotic, though Guido wasn't sure why. It was that they were so slow perhaps; even the raising and lowering of Tonio's eyes was very slow.

  The Cardinal's mouth was slack. He watched Tonio as if Tonio were doing something startling and unfamiliar, and then he stared at Tonio with no expression in his pale gray eyes. His eyes darkened slightly.

  Guido felt an unwelcome warmth under his clothes; he imagined the heat of this crowded room was suffocating him. Yet as he saw the expression on Tonio's face, the manner in which he regarded the Cardinal, and felt what seemed a fathomless silence around them all, he experienced more than a twinge of fear. Of course this was not at all as he was imagining it, surely.

  Who would not notice a young boy of such remarkable beauty, and who would not look upon a man such as His Eminence without a certain measure of awe?

  Yet the fear in Guido subsided only slowly, echoing all of his heavy thoughts during the journey to Rome; his anxiety over a thousand practical details to do with the coming opera, and most unexpectedly, his preoccupation with the loss of his own voice years before.

  "I have never much enjoyed the opera," the Cardinal was saying to Tonio gently. "I fear I know little of that world altogether, but it will be very pleasant indeed to have a singer to perform for us after the evening meal."

  Tonio stiffened. Guido could sense the slight but predictable injury to Tonio's pride. Tonio did what he always did when treated as a common musician; he looked down for a long moment, and then up again slowly before saying with subtle weight: "Yes, my lord?"

  The Cardinal had perceived that something was wrong. It was a curious thing to witness, but he took Tonio's hand again and said: "You will be kind enough to sing for me, won't you?"

  "I should be honored, my lord," Tonio said graciously, the prince talking to the prince.

  Then the Cardinal laughed with infectious innocence; and turning to his secretary, said like a child almost: "This will give my enemies something to talk about for a change."

  *

  Immediately they were ensconced in a chain of vast rooms overlooking an inner garden where the grass was shaved and the trees made discrete shadows on the ground. They unpacked; they roamed about; Paolo became very excited when he saw the bed he was to sleep in, with its puce curtains and carved headboard. And Guido realized that of course he and Tonio must take separate chambers, and for Paolo's sake, sleep apart.

  By late afternoon, Guido had his scores laid out, and he had reread the letters of introduction the Contessa had given him. He would begin at once attending every conversazione, concert, or informal academy open to him. He must talk to people about the operas that had succeeded here in recent years; he must hear what he could of the local singers. The Cardinal's secretaries had already produced the scores and librettos he wanted. And tonight he would go to his first little concert in an Englishman's home.

  So why was he not brimming with anticipation as he saw the harpsichord brought in, and the Cardinal's servants arranging his books so neatly on the shelves?

  Tonio was certainly captivated by Rome, conferring with Paolo about all they'd seen on the way into the city. They wanted to go this very night to see the Pope's treasures in the Vatican museum. Off they went together on various errands, even that an adventure in itself.

  But Guido, alone finally, could not shake this sense of foreboding, so akin to sadness, which had pursued him all the way from Naples to Rome.

  What was it that would not leave his mind alone?

  Of course, there was always that old terror that he carried within him, to do with Tonio's early life, and his last days in Venice of which he would never speak.

  No one had ever had to tell Guido that Tonio's elder brother, Carlo, had been responsible for the unspeakable violence done Tonio, or why Tonio had never let this be known.

  It was all clear from the papers Tonio had signed and dispatched to Venice before they ever reached Naples. This Carlo Treschi was the last male of the line.

  And Guido could remember the man, dimly, a smartly dre
ssed and somewhat genial presence at a few conversaziones into which Guido had drifted before those Venetian days came to such a dramatic and surprising close. Guido had marked him only because he was the brother of "the patrician troubador" as they called Tonio. A big man, very handsome, teller of amusing tales, and a quoter of poetry, who seemed ever desirous of pleasing others, of keeping their attention and their affection as well. He had seemed at the time only another well-bred and infinitely courteous Venetian.

  Guido thought coldly of him now.

  He had never explained any of it to Maestro Cavalla. But in time, that had proved quite unnecessary, the Maestro putting it all together for himself as anyone could.

  But both teachers had believed, when Tonio devoted himself so completely to his singing, that time and accomplishment would heal his wounds. And the brother? They had supposed him of necessity pardoned by Tonio forever, and thanked God for that.

  But this Carlo Treschi had surprised them. Not only had he married Tonio's mother ("Enough to inflame the most obedient little eunuch!" the Maestro had said, and in no sense could Tonio be described as an "obedient little eunuch"), he had fathered by her two healthy sons in three years.

  And Marianna Treschi was again with child.

  This had not come to his attention until he was ready to leave Naples and the Maestro told him of it, cautioning turn to watch Tonio with a careful eye.

  "I fear he is biding his time. He is a pair of twins in the same body, one loving music more than anything in this life, the other hungering for revenge."

  Guido had said nothing: he remembered the little town in the Veneto, the boy bruised and drugged as he lay upon that filthy blood-splattered bed.

  And worst of all, he remembered the role he himself had played in the entire plan.

  He felt listless and almost dumb as he had gazed at the Maestro, marveling silently at that image: twins in the same body. Never did he think of such things; he did not even know the name for such talk. But he had often enough seen the face of the dark twin on his gentle and gracious lover; he had often enough seen it evince hatred, anger, and a coldness one could feel as palpably as winter in the damp walls in a northern inn.

  But he knew, too, the other twin that lived and breathed inside of Tonio, the twin that wanted this first appearance at the Teatro Argentina as badly as Guido wanted it; that was the one who had a voice like no other in this world, the one who made love both fierce and gentle, the one who had become Guido's life.

  "Keep watch," the Maestro had said fearfully, "and let him see what the world offers him, let him have all the pleasures he desires. Feed the one twin so the other starves, for they battle with one another, and surely one must give way."

  Guido had nodded, dazzled again by the idea. But in his leaden silence, unable even to offer the Maestro the slightest concurrence, he thought only of that little town again, the mutilated child in his arms. He thought of how even in the midst of his horror, he had so wanted that voice he could not grieve for that battered innocence.

  So there lived in Tonio a part of himself that wanted vengeance?

  Well, how could there not!

  Yes, the old terror visited him. But it had always been there. At one time, it was the fear that bitterness would destroy Tonio; so now it was that vengeance would accomplish this. It was all one and the same. It was a knowledge finally that Guido carried within him, like the awareness of his mortality, and it made him feel as helpless as that; it made him feel silent and cold.

  Never had he been able to make Tonio speak of it. On those dreadful days when letters came from the Veneto, true, it was that other twin who read them, destroyed them, and went about the world as if numbed by some poisoned draft.

  But it was a radiant and eager Tonio who spoke with him now about the coming opera, the theater, what they should take with them from Naples, what they should leave behind? How many people could the Teatro Argentina hold?

  "I know what this means to you," he had once said to Guido. "No, no, I'm not speaking of myself now, nor you as my teacher, I'm speaking of Guido, the composer. I know what it means."

  "Then don't talk about it." Guido had smiled. "Or you'll worry both of us." They had talked softly, excitedly, now and then laughing, as they packed up the music, the books, and that great quantity of goods and paste and lace, the king's ransom that was Tonio's clothes.

  "Feed the one twin," the Maestro had said to him.

  Yes, he would do that, because that was the only thing he could do, the only thing he had ever done; teach, guide, love, and praise this incomparably talented and beautiful singer, his lover, Tonio, who wanted now all the success that Guido had once wanted when years and years ago Guido had dreamed of his debut in Rome.

  But why was it that all the way to Rome, Guido had been obsessed with that old tragedy, the loss of his voice? Never one to dwell on the past, any more than on complicated images, he was always overwhelmed by it at those rare moments when it overtook him, and he found his memories unsoftened by time.

  Ah, maybe when all was said and done, it was only that he could not think of his parting from Maestro Cavalla and the school where he had lived since he was six years old.

  And his mind sought this old pain to protect him from the leave-taking. But he did not really believe this. He did not know.

  Pain and loss continued to weigh on his mind, intermingled with his recollection of the Maestro's words regarding Tonio, "Let him see what the world offers him, let him have all the pleasures that he desires."

  What was it finally that Guido was feeling? The strong sense of losing something utterly precious, of something like his voice being taken away? Tonio would never leave him now for that terrible pilgrimage to Venice, if in fact Tonio ever truly meant to make that pilgrimage at all.

  Yet the feeling persisted, the foreboding, the dread.

  Even now, as he sat quietly in his room in the Cardinal's palazzo, Guido was aware of it And it was punctuated with repeated flashes of the Cardinal Calvino's face when he set eyes on Tonio. Such innocence that man had evinced! Surely he was the saint everyone said he was, otherwise he would have disguised his immediate fascination and never made such a foolish little joke.

  The Cardinal had gone out after greeting his musicians.

  Guido had watched the extraordinary procession leaving the gates. Five carriages made up the Cardinal's retinue, with exquisitely liveried drivers and footmen; and not five paces from the house, the Cardinal had flung to the crowd the first handful of gold coins.

  Tonio came in. He'd been to the tailor's already with Paolo to outfit him as though he were destined to inherit a local throne. He had bought him a finely worked sword, a dozen or so books, and a violin because this was Paolo's favorite instrument, and Guido insisted he be proficient on an instrument just in case....

  Thoughts of loss; gloom. Why was Guido worrying about this? Just in case! No tragedy would visit Paolo; no tragedy would visit any of them.

  Yet Guido felt heavy and weary in this vast room. Saints in a gilded frame did nothing to comfort him. Saint Catherine amid a crowd of hundreds of onlookers identified the "True Cross."

  Tonio was undressing just beyond the door.

  Guido watched him peel off his limp white shirt and drop his breeches as old Nino, the valet sent by the Contessa, gathered these things and made them disappear.

  Tonio stood still with his back to Guido as if he enjoyed the cooler air of this place washing over him. Then he put on a green silk robe. He tied it loosely at the waist, and as he turned, looking up slowly, there was about him something almost Oriental in its sensuousness, his hair fallen in his face, the soft fabric hanging from the angles of his tall and graceful body as if it were the proper dress in some foreign land.

  "Why are you so somber?" he asked so softly Guido didn't hear him at first. The meaning of the words had to travel through the shadows of the room.

  "I am not somber," Guido said. But he could see he wouldn't get off so easily. To
nio sat down close enough that he could touch the back of Guido's hand with his gathered fingers. And again Guido found himself watching Tonio, just as he had a moment ago, as if they were not talking to one another.

  He'd been right in his predictions years before that Tonio would have all Domenico's grace. But Tonio had perfected a manner which greatly enhanced that grace. The languid movements natural to him now restrained his long limbs; the muted voice had a richness to it that made an eerie prelude to the singer's power when it was revealed.

  His face, it seemed, had become slightly larger, all of the features even a little farther apart than those of an ordinary boy, and there was as ever that subtle mystery to the placement of the eyes. Looking at Tonio even now, Guido felt a subtle disorientation. The magic of the knife, he thought wearily. What it looses, not what it cuts away, is this surpassing seductiveness. He need not know that he has it, nor try to use it. It is there. And infused with the old Venetian manner, he is enough to drive another mad.

  "Guido," he was saying somewhere very far away, "Paolo will be good! I know he will be. I'll give him his lessons myself."

  Guido hated him suddenly. He wished he would go away. He looked at him but he could not speak to him. He was remembering some moment years before when he had lain on the floor of a practice room, miserable after his first act of love. The maestro he so desired then had bent down and spoken something in his ear. What was it?

  "I don't mind Paolo," he said now, annoyed at this misunderstanding. "Paolo is a fine singer," he said simply. It excited him to think that Paolo would learn much more from his time in Rome than ever he would learn at the conservatorio. He had room in his heart for Paolo. He wished Tonio would leave him alone.

  "I'm tired from the journey," he said shortly. "I have so much work before me. I have no time to lose."

  Tonio bent close to him. He whispered something soft and slightly shocking in his ear. Guido was conscious that they were alone in these rooms. Tonio had sent the servants away.