month after month and day after day. Now it was actually happening. Time had run out.
Guido could hear the orchestra tuning in the pit. Signora Bianchi had told him Tonio was ready, but he must not go in. And he and Tonio, having embraced each other that afternoon with the most intimate words, had agreed on that; neither would fire the other in these last moments with his own doubts.
Guido made one last routine inspection in the glass. His smooth white wig was perfect, the gold brocade frock coat, after a series of adjustments by the seamstress, did finally allow him the free use of his arms. He struggled to flatten the lace at his throat, to shake it loose at his wrists, and now he loosened his belt just a little, certain no one would notice, and gathered up the score.
But before stepping into the pit, he stood behind the curtain and looked into the hall.
The great chandelier had just disappeared into the ceiling, taking with it the light of day.
And it seemed the descending gloom loosed a wild roar. There was stamping in the gallery, and coarse shouts coming from both sides.
The abbati had taken over the front of the house as he’d expected, and the boxes were positively jammed. Extra chairs had been squeezed in everywhere, and directly above him to the right it was a dozen Venetians he saw, he was certain of it, and one among them looked particularly familiar, that giant eunuch from San Marco who had been Tonio’s tutor and friend.
The Neapolitans were here, too, in full force, the Contessa Lamberti with Christina Grimaldi in the very front row of the box, their backs to the supper table where others were already at cards. Maestro Cavalla was there, who had already sent his greetings backstage.
The Cardinal Calvino was only one of many cardinals present, a score of young noblemen clustering about him, all of them nodding and talking over their wine.
Suddenly a man dashed up the aisle towards the orchestra and, cupping his hands, let out some long derisive yell. Guido tensed, furious that he couldn’t comprehend it, and then from the rafters it seemed there descended a fluttering white snow of little sheets of paper, with figures rising everywhere to snatch them up.
People had commenced to hoot and stamp. It was time for Guido to step out.
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the edge of the wall. Then he felt someone shaking him and he gritted his teeth, ready to demand this last moment of peace.
“Look at this!” It was Ruggerio, who had one of those pieces of paper which had fluttered from above.
Guido grabbed it, twisting it to the light. It was a crude sonnet insisting Tonio was nothing but a gondolier in his native city and should go back to singing the barcarola on the canals.
“This is bad, this is bad,” Ruggerio was murmuring. “I know this kind of house, they can shut me down! They won’t listen to anything, it’s all sport to them, they’ve got a Venetian patrician to jeer at, and Bettichino’s a favorite of theirs, and they’ll shut us down.”
“Where’s Bettichino!” demanded Guido. “He’s responsible for this.” He turned, his fist doubled.
“Maestro, there isn’t time. And besides, they don’t take orders from Bettichino. All they know is the theaters are open, and your boy’s given them a perfect armory with all his airs. If he’d only taken a stage name, if he wasn’t so damned much the aristocrat and more…”
“Oh, shut up!” Guido said. He shoved the impresario away from him. “Why the hell do you say all this to me now!” He was frantic. All the tales of injustice and debacle came back to him now, Loretti’s misery when Domenico had triumphed and Loretti himself had failed, the old story of Pergolesi, embittered, never returning to Rome.
He felt a fool suddenly, and it was the most despairing feeling in the world. What had made him think this was a tribunal where anything noble or just would happen? He started for the stairs.
“Maestro, keep your head,” said Ruggerio. “If they start throwing things, don’t throw anything back.”
Guido laughed aloud. He took one last contemptuous look at the impresario, and coming out onto the main floor, he walked towards the harpsichord as the musicians rose to greet him with a quick bow.
The house went quiet, even the shouts being hushed, it seemed, as his fingers plunged into the first triumphant theme, the strings rising