and white, this spider of a creature he had become, moving through those dank and moldering rooms. He saw an endless arm outstretched to rock the infant’s cradle. And he saw his mother weeping alone.
Why was she weeping? His thoughts collected themselves slowly and he realized she was weeping because he had slain her husband. Carlo was dead. And she was in mourning again and all those brilliantly imagined candles had gone out. Little bits of smoke rose from the wicks. And up and down those halls, the stench from the canal moved as if it were thick and palpable as the winter mist.
“Ah,” he had spoken aloud finally, folding the stiff parchment sheet of paper, “what did you want? A little more time?”
Another step had been taken; another step. Catrina’s letter said Marianna was once again, already, with child!
So when he arrived at the fencing salon, he had stupidly pushed ahead of a young Tuscan from Siena as he went through the door. Carelessness, that was all.
But as he prepared for his first bout, he could not help hearing a snarl behind him, and raising his eyes, he felt that odd sense of disorientation that had come over him in the Piazza San Marco when he had first heard of Carlo years before. He stood still; it seemed for a terrifying instant he was slipping into dream. And then he clung to the vision of the polished floor in front of him, the high windows, the long and barren room. The words penetrated: “A eunuch? I never knew capons were permitted to carry swords.” Nothing unexpected, nothing very clever, and he saw capons, those emasculated birds, plucked and ready for eating, dangling from the butcher’s hook. He saw the mirrors of the fencing salon all around him and reflected in them the young men in their dark breeches and white shirts standing about.
And he realized the room had fallen silent, and that he himself was turning slowly around.
The young Tuscan was staring at him. Yet the features made no impression; and it seemed he was hearing a multitude of whispers, echoes of whispers, rising from all those in this room, all those of this great ilk of young manhood with whom he had vied and struggled here and won. He was standing very still, with narrowed eyes, waiting for the whispers to shape themselves into words he could understand.
But he became vaguely sensible that the young Tuscan was unnerved. The others were uneasy, and then he positively felt the current of wariness circling the room. He could see the blank, almost sullen faces of these southern Italian men; he could smell their sweat.
And then he sensed the young Tuscan’s fear. He saw it cresting in panic, and with it a desperate and self-destructive pride.
“I don’t cross swords with capons!” the boy shouted almost shrilly, and even these shrewd southern Italians evinced their slight shock.
A strange thought came to Tonio then. He saw the stupidity of this boy. He saw that this boy would rather die than lose face in this small crowd. There was no doubt in Tonio’s mind he could kill him. No one here knew the art of the sword as well as he. And even as he felt his own height, his own metallic anger, he felt the meaninglessness of this act. He didn’t want to kill this young man. He didn’t want for him to die. Yet a man should want to kill him; a man should understand that his insult was not to be borne.
It baffled him; it weighed on him. And the boy was giving him such a rich opportunity! He felt sorrow for the boy. Yet if he let this dilemma grow in him it would weaken him.
And he saw himself as from a great distance narrowing his eyes as he glared at the other and slowly lifted his sword.
The Tuscan drew his rapier; it gave a loud zing as it came loose and flew out at Tonio in the air. His mouth was twisted with fear and anger, and Tonio immediately parried, and tore open the boy’s throat.
The boy dropped his blade, gasping, both hands flying to the wound.
And then all the room came to life quickly and silently, with a handful of young men rallying to Tonio to urge him to back off. He saw others surrounding the Tuscan; he saw the blood drenching the boy’s shirt. The fencing master was insisting they set a time and place outdoors.