He forced his hands to sound the first few notes; and letting loose the full power of his voice, he heard the opening phrases fill the little house. The whole production came to life in his mind. He felt the crowd, he heard the orchestra, he saw that fair-haired girl in the front row.
And there he was at the core of it, that splendid horror, a man in a woman’s dress. No, not a man, you forget yourself. He smiled. And in retrospect, Domenico seemed sublimely innocent and supremely powerful to him.
And he felt his voice dry in his throat.
He knew that he should do it. He should accept it as it was. That was the lesson of the mountain and within the unfolding petals of this new terror there lay the seed of greater strength. He wished he could go back to the mountain. He wished he understood why it had so helped him and transformed him that first time.
But without thinking, he had risen, closed the harpsichord.
And finding a pen in Guido’s bedroom, he wrote his message on the top page of the score:
“I cannot perform women’s roles, not now or ever, and if you do not rewrite the part for me, I do not perform at all.”
There would have been an argument when Guido came in, except that Tonio did not speak. He knew all the arguments: castrati performed women’s roles everywhere; did he think he could go through the world singing only men’s parts? Did he understand what he was sacrificing? Did he think he could always pick and choose?
And then finally Tonio looked up and said in a small voice: “Guido, I will not do it.”
And Guido had gone out. He had to obtain the Maestro’s permission to rewrite, to completely refashion the last act.
It seemed an hour that he was gone.
And there was this unusual thickness, this dryness to Tonio’s throat. It was as if he couldn’t sing, and all the vague images of the mountain, and his night there, brought no comfort, and he was afraid. He felt he was being drawn into something that would utterly destroy him, and he had miscalculated all along. To be the simple and uncontemplative thing which could be all things a castrato must be—that would be the death of him and what he was. Always he would be divided. Always there would be pain. Pain and pleasure, intermingling and working him this way and that, and shaping him, but one never really vanquishing the other; there would never be peace.
He wasn’t prepared for Guido’s crestfallen attitude when he returned. He knew immediately something was wrong.
Guido sat at his desk for a long time before he spoke.
“He’s given the good part to Benedetto, his pupil,” he said finally. “He says you may sing the aria I wrote for Paolo at the end.”
Tonio wanted to say something; he wanted to say that he was sorry, and that he knew he had disappointed Guido terribly.
“It’s your music, Guido,” he murmured, “and everyone will hear it….”
“But I wanted them to hear you sing it; you are my pupil, I wanted them to hear you!”
11
THE EASTER Pasticcio was a success. Tonio had helped with the revisions of the libretto, lent a hand with the costuming, and worked backstage at every rehearsal until he was ready to drop.
It was a full house, and the first time Guido had ever played in the theater, and Tonio had bought him a new wig for the occasion and a fashionable burgundy-colored brocade coat.
Guido had rewritten the song for him. It was an aria cantabile full of exquisite tenderness and perfect for Tonio’s increasing skills.
And when Tonio stepped to the footlights, he wanted it so badly that the old sense of vulnerability was alchemized into exhilaration, a heady awareness of the swimming beauty around him, the expectant faces everywhere, and the obvious and reliable power of his own voice.
Breathing slowly, calmly, before he began, he felt the sadness of the aria, and then moved into it fully expecting to bring the audience to tears.
But when he saw that he had done this, that those before him were actually weeping, he was so astonished he almost forgot to leave the stage.
The young fair-haired girl was there too, just as he had suspected she would be. He saw her transfixed, gazing up at him. The triumph was almost more than he could bear.
But this was Guido’s night, Guido’s premiere performance before an audience of