realize their singer had had his moment and nothing from Tonio could now ruin it. But when were rivalries that decent? It wasn’t enough their idol had just demonstrated himself invincible, they must now crush Tonio.
And again, that ravishing young woman, her face so smooth she seemed deep in thought, came to the footlights as if nothing could shake her.
From the gallery came the first cries as before, but then they were taken up from the parterre.
“Go back to the canals!” they were screaming. “You don’t belong on the same stage with a singer!”
But the abbati, infuriated, were again hurling their own invectives: “Let the boy sing! Are you afraid he’ll make a fool of your favorite!” It was war, and the first missiles descended from above, the soft rotten pears and apple cores. The police appeared in the aisles. There was a silence, only to be followed by more catcalls and yells.
Guido stopped, slamming his hands down on the keyboard.
He was about to rise from the bench when he suddenly saw Tonio turn and resolutely gesture for him to stop his protest. Then came a sharp little nod: continue.
Guido commenced playing, though he could hear and feel nothing of what he was doing. The strings came in for the moment blurring those cries, but now challenged they rose louder.
Tonio’s voice was rising, too, and nothing had shaken him. He was singing those first few passages with the same conviction and beauty that Guido had dreamed of. And Guido was almost in tears.
Then suddenly the great hollow of the house reverberated with an unbelievable noise!
A dog had been loosed on the first floor, and howling and barking, it scampered frantically towards the orchestra.
It seemed the entire first tier was on its feet in a roar of outrage. The Cardinal Calvino was signaling furiously for order.
Guido had stopped.
The orchestra had stopped. The abbati were cursing the dog, and now the police streamed into the gallery as well as the pit, and there were scuffles and cries as a score of culprits were dragged out to be whipped before being returned to the theater.
Guido sat perfectly still at the bench staring forward. He knew in a matter of seconds the theater would be cleared, not by any authority, but by the example of the lords and ladies who would start filing out of the first tier to leave this rabble to exhaust itself. He was sickened and unable to reason.
The abbati were one solid roar in his ears, and through a glaze of bitter tears, he looked up again to that horseshoe of infuriated faces.
Bat something was happening. Something was changing. The dog gave out its last piercing yelps as it was dragged away, and suddenly a deluge of orderly clapping drowned out the hoots and the stamps and the laughter.
Bettichino had returned to the stage. He had thrown up his hands for order.
His face was contorted with rage, red to the roots of his blond hair, and he shouted in full voice:
“Silence!”
An approving roar went up all around, drowning the last volley of hoots and curses.
“Let the boy sing!” Bettichino cried.
And at once the first tier signaled its assent in loud applause, all sinking again to their chairs, as the abbati settled en masse, picking up their scores and righting their candles.
Bettichino stood glaring before him.
The house went absolutely quiet.
And then, throwing his cape over his shoulder, Bettichino composed his face, and turned slowly towards Tonio. The most innocent smile blossomed on Bettichino’s features; he extended his hand to Tonio. He bowed to him.
Guido stared speechless at Tonio as Tonio stood absolutely alone in this void of relentless light and perfect silence.
Bettichino clasped his hands behind his back and assumed an air of one who is waiting.
Guido shut his eyes: with an emphatic nod he spread out his hands, hearing the rustle of the musicians around him, and then all of a piece they commenced the introduction to the aria.
Tonio, placid as before, his eyes fixed not on the audience before him, but rather on that distant masterly singer, opened his mouth and right on pitch as always let loose the first gilded stream of melody.
Slow, slow, Guido was thinking, and into the second part Tonio went, only now beginning the more intricate passages, the back and forth, the up and down, the slow building of trills with ease and control, until returning again he commenced his true ornamentation.
Guido had thought he was ready for it, but instantly he adjusted himself: