struggled with his exercises, marveling that he now possessed such control over his voice that he could get through them.
If there was ever a formal acknowledgment of Lorenzo’s death he did not hear it. If the body was found and brought back to the conservatorio, he did not know it.
Taking no breakfast or lunch (the thought of food disgusted him), he lay in his room at various periods wondering what was going to happen to him.
The fact that Guido carried on as usual was of course the most significant indication that Tonio wasn’t going to be arrested. He knew, absolutely knew, that if he were in danger, Guido would tell him.
But as the congregation convened for the evening meal, he began to realize there was a subtle but unmistakable current moving through the dining hall. Everyone at one time or another was looking at him.
The regular boys, whom he had steadfastly avoided as if they did not exist, were giving him the smallest and most significant nods when their eyes met. And little Paolo, the castrato from Florence who always managed to sit very close to him, could not keep his eyes off Tonio, forgetting finally to eat. His round little snub-nosed face was full of deep fascination, and not once did he break into one of his impish smiles. As for the other castrati at table, they were clearly deferring to Tonio, passing him the bread first, and the communal pitcher of wine.
Domenico was nowhere to be seen; for the first time, Tonio wanted him here, not naked in bed upstairs, but here beside him.
And when he entered the theater for the evening’s rehearsal, Francesco, the violinist from Milan, came up to him and asked him politely if in all his years at Venice he had ever heard the great Tartini.
Tonio murmured assent. Yes, and Vivaldi, too, he had heard them both that last summer on the Brenta.
This was all so unexpected and strange!
At last he was in his room, and exhausted. Domenico was in the shadows, he knew, though he could not see him. And finally Tonio, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out:
“It was stupid, rash and stupid, for that boy to die.”
“Probably the will of God,” Domenico answered.
“Are you playing with me!” Tonio flashed.
“No. He couldn’t really sing. Everyone knew that. And what is a eunuch who can’t sing? He was better off dead.” Domenico shrugged with perfect candor.
“Maestro Guido is a eunuch who cannot sing,” Tonio whispered angrily.
“And Maestro Guido has twice tried to take his own life,” said Domenico coolly. “Besides, Maestro Guido is the best teacher in this conservatorio. He’s better than Maestro Cavalla and everyone knows it. But Lorenzo? What could Lorenzo do? Croak in a country church where no one knew any better? The world’s full of eunuchs like that. It was in God’s hands,” and again he shrugged rather wearily.
He wound his arm around Tonio’s waist like an agreeable snake. “Besides,” he said, “what are you so worried about? He had no family.”
“And the police?”
Domenico laughed outright. “My, but Venice must be a peaceful and orderly city! Come.” He started to kiss Tonio.
This was the longest conversation they’d ever had and it was over.
But late that night, while Domenico slept, Tonio sat silently at the window.
He was stunned by the death of Lorenzo. He did not want to put it out of his mind, though for long moments he merely stared at the distant peak of Vesuvius. There were soundless flashes of light, and a trail of smoke marked the path of the lava flowing down to the sea.
It was as if he were mourning Lorenzo because no one else mourned him.
And against his will, he found himself far, far away from here, in that little town on the edge of the Venetian State, alone, under the stars, running. He felt the crunch of the dirt under his feet, and then those bravos taking hold of him. He was carried back into that dirty little room. He struggled with all his strength against them while they, as if in nightmare, forced him down over and over again.
He shuddered. He looked at the mountain. I am in Naples, he thought, and yet his memory expanded with all the insubstantiality of a dream.
Flovigo melted into Venice. He held the stiletto in his hands and this time he faced another opponent.
His mother cried and cried, her hair obscuring her face, as she had cried that last night in the supper room. They