The air was chill and clean and Tonio had spent the early evening roaming the city to see all around him those life-sized presepi or cribs which the people of Naples so love, families handing down the statues from generation to generation. On rooftops, on porches, in convent gardens, everywhere, these splendid Nativity scenes unfolded with magnificent images of the Virgin, Saint Joseph, shepherds, and angels awaiting the Infant Savior.
Never before had the pure meaning of this night been so palpable to Tonio. Since he had left the Veneto, he had found no faith in himself, no grace. Yet it seemed on this night the world would and could renew itself. Some ancient power lay behind the ritual, the hymns, these glorious images. And he could feel a quickening in him as midnight approached. Christ was coming into the world. The light would shine in the darkness. It had an eerie and heartrending power.
But when he came downstairs in his black uniform, the famous red sash tied neatly in place, he felt the first trepidation for his performance, and knowing the effect of worry on the voice itself, was doubly stricken.
Suddenly he couldn’t remember a single word of Guido’s cantata, or the melody. He reminded himself it was an extraordinary composition, that Guido was already proceeding to the harpsichord to conduct, and that he had the score in his hand, so it didn’t matter if he couldn’t remember. Then he almost smiled.
What a gift this was. If he weren’t terrified for his performance, what would he be feeling? The chorus of geldings will now raise its voice to heaven!
But he was terrified, just like any other singer. And in a moment, just as Guido had told him, he would become calm, he would hear the opening bars, everything would be perfect.
Yet as he moved along the side wall and down through the assembled boys to the front rail, he saw in the very first row of the congregation beneath him the small blond head of a young woman. She was bent over her programme, her dark taffeta dress forming a circle around her.
He looked away at once. Impossible that it be she, on this night of all nights! But as if some grim hand, some bullying brutal hand were forcing him to it, he looked down again at her. He saw the delicate wisps all about her soft curls, and then slowly she raised her eyes, and for an instant they looked at one another.
Surely she remembered those awkward moments in the Contessa’s supper room, his drunken recklessness, which he himself would never forget. Yet there was no malice in her expression. It was musing, almost dreamy.
A bitterness welled up in him, poisoning him, poisoning all the beguiling beauty of this place, the sanctuary with its rows of lights, its great masses of fragrant flowers.
He attempted to steady himself. It was she who had looked away first, her small hands folding that rustling paper in her lap, and then he felt himself grow tense, only to weaken slowly and completely. He had the impression of the pain positively washing through him like water.
Only the idea that he was trapped was real to him. And that the congregation had stopped its low murmuring, and that Guido had seated himself at the keyboard. The little orchestra was lifting its instruments. The thought came clearly to him. “I cannot do it.” The music was nothing but a series of inscrutable marks. And then came the opening blasts of the trumpet.
He looked out over the open space before him. He started singing.
The notes climbed, they plunged down and rose up again, the words interwound effortlessly, the scroll of music closed shut in his hands. And quite suddenly, he knew it was all right. He was not lost in it; rather it was coming strongly and beautifully and he felt the first quiet rush of pride.
When it all came to an end, he knew it had been a little triumph.
The audience, not allowed to applaud, was shuffling, coughing, moving its feet, all subtle signals of unbounded approval. And Tonio could see it in the faces everywhere. As he followed the other castrati out of the chapel, he wanted only to be alone with Guido. That need was so great in him, he could hardly endure the congratulations, the warm hand clasps, Francesco murmuring to him that Domenico would have been sick with jealousy.
When Guido took hold of him that would be praise enough,