had not even taken leave of each other. When would they have their farewells? In those last moments, he had never dreamed that he would be parted from her. And now she cried on and on as if there were no one to comfort her.
He lifted the knife. He felt its handle firmly in his grip. And then he saw a familiar expression—what was it?—horror on Carlo’s face? Surprise? The tension snapped.
He was in Naples, his head on the windowsill, exhausted.
He opened his eyes. The city of Naples was waking before him. The sun sent its first rays into the mist that shrouded the trees. The sea was a gleam of metal.
Lorenzo, he thought, you were not the one. And yet the boy himself was already obliterated. And Tonio felt pride in that abominable moment, the blade, the body on the tavern floor.
Stricken, he bowed his head. He understood this pride in all its miserable components. He understood all the glory, all the significance, of that appalling act.
That he had been able to do it so easily, that he would do it again!
Domenico’s delicate face was smooth in sleep as he lay so easily on the pillow.
And the sight of that beauty, given over to him so much and so often, made Tonio feel absolutely alone.
Entering the practice room an hour later, he needed the music, he needed Guido, and he felt his voice rising to meet this day’s challenges with a new purity and new vigor. It seemed the most difficult and intricate problems disappeared under his persistent attack. And by noon, he felt lulled by the possibility of beauty in the simplest tone.
Putting on his frock coat that night to go out, he realized that it had been tight on him for some time. He stared at his outstretched hands. And glancing up, almost furtively, in the mirror was astonished that he had grown so much so soon.
6
TONIO’S HEIGHT WAS INCREASING rapidly, there was no doubt of it, and every time he took some notice of it, he felt a weakening, a sudden loss of breath.
But he kept this to himself. He had his new coats made with longer arms, knowing he would soon outgrow them otherwise, and though Guido worked him mercilessly, it seemed the entire city of Naples was outdoing herself to distract him.
In July, he had already witnessed the dazzling spectacle of St. Rosalia when fireworks had illuminated the whole sea, and it seemed a thousand boats had been brilliantly lit over the water.
And now in August shepherds came out of the distant hills of Apulia and Calabria, playing pipes and stringed instruments which Tonio had never heard, and dressed in the most rustic sheepskins, they visited the churches and houses of the aristocracy.
September brought the annual procession to Madonna del Piè di Grotta. All the boys of Naples’ great conservatorios walked in it beneath balconies and windows beautifully and sumptuously draped for the occasion. The weather was milder, the summer heat had lifted.
And in October, the boys were gathered morning and night for nine days at the Franciscan church, an official duty for which the conservatorios were exempt from certain taxes.
Soon Tonio lost all track of the saints’ days, the festivals, the street fairs, and the official occasions on which he was appearing. While untrained, he had often kept silent in the chorus, or sung only a few bars. But he was learning more and more of the music and singing it well, as Guido kept him up late and had him rise early to go over it.
There were enormous and elaborate processions for the various guilds in which the boys sometimes rode on massive floats, and there were also funerals.
And every waking hour in between there was Guido. There was the empty stone study, the exercises, and Tonio’s voice gaining new flexibility, exactness.
Early in the fall, however, Tonio had received a letter from his cousin Catrina Lisani, and he was surprised at how little it affected him.
She said she was coming to Naples to see him. He at once wrote that she must not do this. He had put the past behind him, he said, and if she appeared here, he would not see her.
He hoped she would never write again, but there was not time to think about it, to brood, to let this throw its mantle over the present.
And when she wrote again, he answered politely that he would leave Naples, if need be, to avoid a meeting with her.