Yet he returned quite deliberately to the stream of those leaving the chapel, and when that young blond-haired girl emerged, as he knew she would, he felt his face grown warm.
The reality of her was so startling. In his memory she had paled, grown insignificant, and now here she was, her golden hair tumbled softly about her rounded neck, and her eyes, so infinitely serious, were a glimmer of dark blue. She wore a bit of violet ribbon at her throat which gave its color to her small mouth. Slightly pouted, succulent, it made him almost feel its fullness, as if he had pressed his thumb to her lips just before he had kissed her, and flustered, miserable, he looked away.
An elderly gentleman accompanied her. Who was that, her father? And why hadn’t she told him of that little incident in the supper room? Why hadn’t she cried out?
She was directly in front of him now, and as he looked up, he looked into her eyes.
Without hesitating, he made her a correct bow. And then almost angrily, again he looked away. He felt himself strong and quieted and aware for the first time perhaps that of all the painful emotions of life, only sadness has such an exquisite luster. Now she was gone.
The Maestro di Cappella had come forward and was clasping his hands:
“Quite remarkable,” he said. “And I had thought you were moving too fast.”
Then Tonio saw Guido, and Guido’s happiness was so palpable that Tonio felt a small catch in his throat. The Contessa Lamberti was embracing him. As soon as she had gone away, he turned to Tonio and, gently ushering him down the corridor, seemed on the verge of kissing him when he thought the better of it, wisely.
“What in the world happened to you up there! I thought you weren’t going to start. You terrified me.”
“But I did start, perfectly in time,” Tonio said. “Don’t be angry.”
“Angry?” Guido laughed. “Do I seem angry?” He embraced Tonio impulsively and then let him go. “You were perfect,” he whispered.
The last of the guests were gone, and the front doors were being closed, and the Maestro di Cappella was in deep conversation with a gentleman who had his back turned.
Guido had unlocked his door, but Tonio knew he would not retire without hearing what the Maestro had to say.
But as the Maestro turned and guided his guest towards them, Tonio experienced a quiet shock. This was a Venetian, he realized at once, though how he knew he could not have said.
And then, when it was too late to turn away, he saw that this blond, heavily built young man was Giacomo Lisani, Catrina’s eldest son.
Catrina had betrayed him! She had not come herself, but she had sent this one! And though he wanted to escape, he realized immediately that Giacomo appeared as miserable as he was. Giacomo’s cheeks were aflame, and his pale blue eyes downcast.
And how he had changed from the awkward colt whom Tonio had known in Venice, that impetuous student from the University at Padua who was forever whispering and laughing with his brother, with an elbow in the ribs.
The shadow of a beard darkened his face and neck ever so slightly, and it seemed a sense of duty weighed upon him as he made Tonio a deep, almost ceremonial bow.
The Maestro was presenting him. It was impossible to avoid this. Then Giacomo looked directly to Tonio, and as quickly he looked away.
Is it revulsion? Tonio thought coldly. Am I loathsome to him? But all consideration of himself and how he must appear to his cousin were slowly alchemized in a silent animosity that was the enemy of reason, while at the same time he felt a fascination with the workings of nature in Giacomo, workings he would never see in so many of the students who were his only real kin now.
“Marc Antonio,” Giacomo began. “I’ve been sent by your brother, Carlo, to see you.”
The Maestro was gone. Guido, too, had moved away, but he lingered just behind the young man, his eyes fixed on Tonio.
And Tonio, hearing for the first time in so long the beautiful Venetian dialect, had to disentangle the meaning of Giacomo’s words from the deep masculine timbre that seemed almost magical to him in this moment. How exquisite was that dialect, how like the gilt everywhere on the walls here, on the curlicues and the columns, on the painted doors. Giacomo’s heavy,