Maestro said. “I tell you I know you mean to go after your brother on your own.” His tone had dropped in a whisper. And he was so close to Tonio that Tonio could feel the Maestro’s breath on his face. “But this man waits for you as a spider waits,” the Maestro said. “And the decree of banishment against you has made the entire city of Venice his web. He will destroy you if you move against him.”
“No more,” Tonio said. He was now so angry he could not trust his voice, but he could see the Maestro had little grasp of the effect of his own words.
“You know nothing of me,” Tonio said, “of what I came from, of why I am here. And I will not stand here and listen to you speak of these things as if they were common things! You will not talk of them in the same tone you take to chastise your students! You will not voice your distress as if this were merely the failure of an opera, the passing of a monarch in some distant land!”
“I don’t mean to speak of them lightly,” the Maestro insisted. “For God’s sakes, will you hear me? Send other men to do this deed! Send men as ruthless as those who are guarding him. These bravos are trained assassins; send against them their own kind.”
Tonio struggled to free himself, but he was incapable of raising his hand against this man. Bravos, this man was telling him about bravos and what they were! Had he not awakened enough nights to find himself still in that town of Flovigo struggling against those hardened and brutal men? He could feel their hands on him, he could smell their breath; he could remember his powerlessness in those moments and the knife that cut him; he would never in all his life forget.
“Tonio, if I am wrong,” said the Maestro, “if you have sent assassins and if they have failed, then surely you must know you cannot accomplish this yourself.”
The Maestro’s grip was loosened, but Tonio was for the moment spent. He was looking away; and he had seldom felt more alone since those early days. He could not now remember all that had just been said; his confusion had obliterated much of it, save the feeling that the Maestro would go on and on, understanding so little while imagining himself to understand so much.
“If you were some common singer…” The Maestro sighed. “If yours were not the voice they all dream of, I would say then do what you must.”
He let go of Tonio. He let his hand drop to his side.
“Oh, I have been remiss,” he said, “in that I have not tried to understand you before now. You seemed so content, so happy here.”
“And was it so unnatural that I should be content!” Tonio demanded. “Was it so wrong that I should find happiness? But did you think they cut the spirit out of me with all the rest?
“You have ruled in this principality of geldings too long without ever being part of it. You have forgotten what life is like! Do you think all the world is made up of maimed creatures who wander forth bleeding to pursue their destiny! This is not life!”
“Your voice is your life! It’s been your life since you came here! Do you want me to deny my senses!” the Maestro implored.
“No.” Tonio shook his head. “That is art, that is the painted stage, and the music, and the little world we have made for ourselves, but that is not life! If you would talk of my brother to me, of what was done to me, then you must talk of life. And I tell you what was done to me must be avenged. Any man out there in the street would understand it. Why is it so hard for you?”
The Maestro was chastened but he did not give in.
“You’re not speaking of life if you go to Venice to kill your brother,” he whispered. “You are speaking of death, and that death will not be his, it will be yours. Oh, would you were but one of the others. Would you were not what you are.”
“I am only a man.” Tonio sighed. “That is all I am. That is what I was born to be, and what I’ve become no matter what was done to prevent it. And I tell you, when all is said and done, a man