cold as ever, but the stunning velocity of Tonio’s progress absorbed him so completely that there was less time for gratuitous meanness. Both of them were lost in their work for hours at a time, and Tonio’s schedule had hardened into that of a senior student.
He sang for two hours, then two hours more before a mirror, watching his stance, his gestures, just as if he were on the stage, then after the noon meal devoted himself to librettos, practicing his enunciation. More singing for one hour. Then counterpoint, and improvisation. He must be able to pick up any melody and properly ornament it on his own. He worked furiously at the blackboard, Guido correcting his work before he was allowed to sing it.
Another hour of composition, then the day ended with singing. In between there were breaks during which he sang with the conservatorio choir, or worked in the theater on the next opera that would be performed at the end of the summer.
And then there were those afternoons when the boys went out to perform at various churches, and to walk in processions.
The first time Tonio willingly joined the double rank of castrati proceeding slowly through the streets it was as bad as he had expected. Some part of him, proud and perhaps always suffering bitterly inside, could not accept that he was being paraded before these gaping crowds as a costumed gelding.
But each time he conquered this misery, his will was strengthened. And when he pierced through his contempt for what he saw, he beheld all manner of new aspects of what was happening to him. He saw awe in the eyes of those who banked the streets; they looked to the older castrati with reverence, straining to hear those polished voices, even memorizing the features of individual faces.
The hymns on the summer air, the church itself full of light and perfume, all of this gave forth its sensual brilliance. And finally lulled with small thoughts, or wrapped in the perfecting of his own singing, Tonio felt some vague enjoyment of it all. In these gilded churches, full of lifelike marble saints and glimmering candles, he knew moments of serene happiness.
But the feeling persisted that Guido knew of his nightly hours with Domenico and that Guido did not approve of it.
Actually it was Tonio who did not approve of it. Night after night he came upstairs to find Domenico in his rooms, no matter what the hour. Domenico was always fresh, fragrant with some spiced cologne, his hair undone on his shoulders. He would rise from sleep on Tonio’s bed, his body so warm that at times it seemed he must be in the grip of a fever. But the fever was simply desire. He offered his lips, he offered his naked limbs, he did not care what Tonio did to him.
Their coupling was always rough. It had the outward form of rape, and sometimes the language of rape, and sometimes a mock struggle beforehand. Tonio would rip away the lace shirt, the breeches. He would run his hands over Domenico’s skin that had the resilience and perfection of a baby’s. Then he would slap Domenico if he chose, or force him up to be raped on his knees as if he were praying.
And finally after much persistence, Domenico lured him into the most delicious play beforehand. Going down between Tonio’s legs, he suckled him, devoured him, emitting his little moans as if this act—it was inconceivable to Tonio—were enough to satisfy him.
But the rape was always the end of it, Domenico’s organ roughly clasped in Tonio’s hand as if Tonio meant to punish him both ways as he thrust into him without the slightest care or gentleness.
It puzzled Tonio that Domenico did not need more, demand more. But Domenico was always satisfied afterwards.
And there were wild moments during the day, mostly in the quiet siesta hours, when Domenico would beckon him into some empty practice room, and this struggle would be enacted with the added spice of risk and secrecy. Tonio could not get enough of Domenico naked or clothed; he was not sure which was the greater pleasure. And then there was that memory often pervading everything, of Domenico as a woman. Once or twice, incited by the perfection of Domenico’s face, those fine features, and that wealth of perfumed hair, Tonio really slapped him.
But what puzzled Tonio about Domenico’s acquiescence in bed was that Domenico was cold and uncompromising to everyone. He was beyond