sophisticated Neapolitans, and when Tonio saw him taking his bows, he forgot about everything else.
Then later at the Contessa Lamberti’s house, he saw the fair-haired one again.
It was very crowded. Lent was over, people wanted to dance, to drink, and of course the performance at the conservatorio had been very fine, and all the musicians were welcome. And Tonio, roaming about, glass in hand, happened to see the girl suddenly as she came through a door. She was on the arm of a very old, dark-skinned gentleman, but when their eyes met, she nodded to Tonio. Then she went to join the dance.
Of course no one noticed it. No one would have thought it remarkable. But Tonio felt immediately light-headed. He got clean away from her as fast as he could, wondering even critically, out of sorts suddenly, why was she here? She was so young after all. Surely she wasn’t married, and almost all Italian girls of that age were shut up in convents. Rarely did they ever go to balls.
His bride-to-be, Francesca Lisani, had been so thoroughly entombed that when he was told he was to marry her, he could not remember her face. But she had been so beautiful when they finally met that afternoon at her convent! He still saw her through the grille, and why was he so surprised, he thought now. After all, she was Catrina’s child.
But why think of all this? It was unreal to him, actually; or rather, unreal to him one moment, and then poignantly real the next. What was overpoweringly real was that every time he paused for an instant someone complimented his performance.
Sleek gentlemen he didn’t know, their walking sticks in one hand, their lace handkerchiefs gathered delicately in the other, bowed to him, told him he had been delightful and that they looked to him for great things. Great things! The ladies were smiling at him, lowering those elaborately painted fans for an instant, making it quite evident he might come to sit beside them if he liked.
And Guido, where was Guido? Surrounded by people, Guido was actually laughing, the little Contessa Lamberti on his arm.
Tonio stopped, took a deep, ungraceful gulp of his white wine, and continued his wandering. More guests streamed in and there was a blast of fresh air from the front doors.
He leaned his shoulder against the fretted edge of a long mirror, and without willing it, realized it had been his last day in Venice when he had seen his future wife, oh, so many things had happened that day, he had lain with Catrina, he had sung in San Marco.
This was dreadful, and how long had he been in Naples? Almost a year!
When he saw Guido beckon, he went to him.
“You see that little man there, the Russian, Count Sherzinski,” Guido whispered. “He’s a brilliant amateur, and I’ve written a sonata for him. He may play it later on.”
“Why, that’s splendid,” Tonio whispered. “But why don’t you play it?”
“No.” Guido shook his head. “Too soon. They’ve all just discovered I’m something more than…” But he swallowed the words, and Tonio, secretly, slyly, pressed his hand.
More of the conservatorio musicians had just arrived. Guido was moving away, and Piero, the blond-haired Milanese castrato, came up to Tonio at once. “You were marvelous tonight,” he said. “You teach us something every time you sing.”
From a distance Tonio saw Benedetto, the Maestro’s new pupil, who had taken the role originally written for him. Benedetto passed them without a glance.
“It was his night,” Tonio said with a resigned gesture, “and Guido’s, to be sure.”
He had assisted Benedetto with his costume; he had placed the wig of curls and ribbons on his head. How disdainful he had been of those around him; he took no more notice of Tonio than he would of a valet; and he had long, perfectly oval fingernails, each one with its pale half moon at the root. He must have buffed them when he was alone; they shone as if they were lacquered when he was on the stage. Yet there was something hard-bitten and starved-looking about him; the white lace and paste jewels never really transformed him; but he wore it all without the slightest self-consciousness. What would he think, Tonio wondered, if he knew I’d given up the part rather than put on those clothes?
“He was all right; he will always be all right,” Piero said now, giving Benedetto a cold, appraising look.