sheen to him altogether as he pulled on a new pair of white silk gloves. He wore his rhinestone buckle shoes.
“Ah, I’ve been asking for you all afternoon,” he said. “I want you to come to the Contessa’s house early,” he said. “Have a light supper and don’t drink any more wine. This is a special night, you must do as I tell you, and don’t make any excuses, I know you don’t want to come there, but you must.”
“When have I not wanted to come there?” Tonio asked. Guido never looked so good to him as when he was going out.
“The last half a dozen times you’ve been invited,” said Guido, “but you must come tonight.”
“And why is that?” Tonio asked coldly. He could scarce believe the irony of all this. He was remembering Domenico’s little plan of years before, the same albergo, rooms by the sea. He smiled. What could he say?
“The Contessa’s been through an ordeal, and this is her first ball since she’s been back. You know her cousin died, the old Sicilian who’d lived all those years in England. Well, she had to take him back to Palermo to be buried. I don’t suppose you’ve ever witnessed a funeral in Palermo.”
“Never witnessed anything in Palermo,” said Tonio.
Guido was shuffling through the bound scores on his desk. “Well, the old man had to be placed in a chair in the church for the ceremony, and afterwards mounted in the Capuchin catacombs with all the rest of the family; it’s an underground necropolis, hundreds of corpses all properly dressed, some standing, others lying down, the lot tended by the monks.”
Tonio winced. But he’d heard of these places. He could conceive of nothing like it in northern Italy.
“Yes, well, the Contessa has enough Sicilian blood that it didn’t make much difference to her. But the old man’s bride, the young girl from England he married, she was quite hysterical when she saw the catacombs. She had to be taken out.”
“Small wonder.”
“Anyway, the Contessa’s back. She’s done her duty, her cousin’s buried, and this ball is rather important to her. So be there early as I ask.”
“But what has this to do with me?”
“The Contessa likes you, she has always liked you,” Guido said. “Now”—he put his arm around Tonio and held him tightly—“no more wine, as I said.”
The house was dark when he reached it. He had left the church as soon as Caffarelli had sung his first aria, the castrato’s music thrilling him and humbling him at the same time. Nothing of Venice had come back to plague him; he had heard Caffarelli too often since; and he’d been thirsty for that perfection, that lust in the voice, that understanding of a thousand things which he seldom found in others around him anymore.
He’d tried to let Caffarelli inflame him in a special way, too. He wanted Caffarelli, without ever knowing it, to give him some courage he lacked.
Whether that had happened or not he didn’t know.
But it was pleasant to come into the Contessa’s house early and have the luxury of seeing all this gilded plaster by the light of the moon. He gave up his cloak to the porter, said he didn’t want anything yet, and wandered off alone through a chain of empty rooms. Simple furniture became spectral in the shadows, hovering above carpets full of half-realized illuminations, and the warm air pouring in was sweet. There was no smoke yet, no burning wax, and no French perfume.
And he didn’t really mind coming here as Guido thought.
He had just become tired of it, particularly since some four or five months before the yellow-haired girl had disappeared. But maybe, maybe, she would be here tonight. The house open to the fragrant night with its hum of insects and its scent of roses seemed the very essence of the south. Even the unbelievable multitude of servants seemed particularly southern, a host of the poverty-stricken, got up in lace and satin, working for nothing, carrying their little beacons from room to room.
He wandered out into the garden. He didn’t really want to see the house come alive, and glancing back through the dark gulf of the parlor he’d just left, he saw a distant procession of musicians already coming through the corridor, their huge double basses and cellos on their bent backs. Francesco came along, carrying his violin by the neck, as if it were a huge dead bird.
Tonio looked away to the half moon. Everywhere about him