Her letters changed after this. Despairing of a visit, she broke her guarded style with a new candor:
Everyone laments your departure. Tell me what you desire and I shall send it to you. Until I had your letter in hand and matched it with your old lessons, I did not believe you were living, though I had been told otherwise.
What do you wish to know of this place? I will tell you all. Your mother was gravely ill after you left, refusing all food and drink, but she is now recovered.
And your brother, your devoted brother! Why, he so reproaches himself for your going away that only the fair sex in great numbers can comfort him. And this medicine he mixes with as much wine as possible, though nothing prevents his morning attendance at the Grand Council.
At this Tonio put the letter aside, the words scalding him. Unfaithful to her so soon, he mused, and does she know it? And she was ill, was she, poisoned no doubt by the lies that he had forced her to digest, and why must he read any of this? Yet again, he unfolded the parchment:
Write to me what you wish. My husband is ever your champion in the Council, and this banishment will not endure forever. I love you, my dearest cousin.
Weeks passed before he was to answer her. He had told himself these few years belonged to him, and that he did not wish to hear from her, nor anyone from Venice, ever again.
But one evening, without warning or explanation, the urge seized him, and he sat down and wrote her a brief but courteous reply.
After that, not a fortnight passed that he did not hear from her, though often he destroyed her letters so that he would not be tempted to read them over and over.
Another purse arrived from Venice. He had more money than he could spend.
And that winter he sold his carriage, as he never used it and did not wish to maintain it. And thinking that if he was to have a eunuch’s long and lanky body he should dress it well, he ordered more magnificent clothes than ever in the past.
The Maestro di Cappella teased him on account of it, and so did Guido, but he was ever generous, gave gold to the beggars in the streets, and brought little Paolo presents whenever he could.
But he was rich even after that. Carlo had seen to it. He might have invested his funds. But he never found the time.
And as full as life was, as crowded with event and struggle and constant work, he was still astonished the morning Guido told him he would sing a solo in the Christmas Oratorio.
Christmas. He had been in this place half a year!
For a long moment he didn’t reply. He was thinking that it had been at a Christmas mass in San Marco that he had first sung with Alessandro when he was only five years old.
He saw that fleet of gondolas going out across the water to venerate the relics on San Giorgio. Carlo would be with them now.
He tried to put this out of his mind.
And he realized that Domenico would be leaving Naples for Rome soon.
Domenico would make his first appearance in Rome at the Teatro Argentina at the opening of the Roman carnival on the New Year.
What had Guido said? That he would sing, he would sing what? He murmured some apology and when Guido said it again, that he was to sing a solo in the Christmas Oratorio, Tonio shook his head.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “I’m not ready.”
“Who are you to tell me whether or not you are ready?” Guido asked earnestly. “Of course you’re ready. I wouldn’t have you sing it if you weren’t ready.”
Tonio could not stop the vision of all the lanterns riding the black lagoon as a fleet of gondolas made the Christmas crossing to San Giorgio.
The morning sun was shining full on the conservatorio garden outside, making each archway of the cloister a picture of yellow light and fluttering leaves. No, the light was tinted green actually. And yet Tonio wasn’t in this place. He was in San Marco. His mother said, “See, your father!”
“Maestro, don’t put me to this test,” he murmured. He summoned all his Venetian breeding. “I cannot rely on my voice, and if you force me to sing alone, I’ll fail you.”
This worked wonders on Guido, who was getting angry.