shoulders, stood facing the door, ready to receive the first screams and embraces.
Men and women he didn’t know, the players in the orchestra, Francesco the violinist from the conservatorio, a young harlot with lovely red hair—all of them beat him with their arms, lips leaving their wetness on his cheeks, as several servants crowded in, gifts in hand, waiting to present them. There were letters for him that each courier demanded he read and answer now; flowers were being carried in, and the impresario Ruggerio crushed him so hard to his chest that he almost lifted him off the floor. Signora Bianchi was now sobbing.
Somehow or other he’d been pushed into the vast open space outside his door, a great hanging backdrop creaking as he fell against it. Paolo’s voice suddenly rose above the din calling “Tonio, Tonio!” and he found himself thrashing about until, seeing Paolo’s outstretched arms, he caught him up and held him to his shoulder. Someone steadied him meantime. A tall gentleman clasped his right hand and deposited in it a tiny jeweled snuffbox. It was impossible to bow; whispered thanks went in the wrong direction. A young woman had kissed him suddenly on the mouth, and in a panic he almost fell backwards. And no sooner had Paolo’s feet touched the floor again than people were trampling him.
But Tonio quickly realized Ruggerio was pressing him back into the dressing room where a half-dozen little padded silk chairs had been arranged and the dressing tables were banks of fragrant flowers.
He fell down into a chair; another woman had appeared, surrounded by liveried gentlemen it seemed, and suddenly grabbing in her hands a whole mass of soft white blooms, she pressed them right to his face and he laughed out loud, feeling all that coolness and softness. Her blue eyes were puckered in a silent smile as he looked up. He nodded his gratitude.
And then there was Guido. Guido who had slipped in against the wall and was staring at him with the most remarkable expression. His mind shot back unerringly to that moment in the Contessa Lamberti’s house when he had first sung, and there was that same brimming pride and brimming love. He rose up into Guido’s arms and held him in a long moment of dark concealing silence until the room around him fell still, and no one was there, only he and Guido. Or so it seemed. And so it didn’t matter.
Somewhere far off, Ruggerio was making polite excuses. A voice returned: “But my mistress is waiting for an answer.” And Signora Bianchi was horrified to discover that Paolo’s right hand was cut and bleeding. “Good God, a dog has bitten you!” But none of this penetrated. Guido’s heart was beating against Tonio’s heart, and then ever so gently Guido guided him back to the chair and, holding his arms, said:
“We must go now and pay our respects to the great singer….”
“Oh, no, not through that crowd!” Tonio shook his head. “Not now…”
“We must, and now…” Guido insisted, and with a faint smile, he said, “It is very, very important that we do so.”
Tonio rose obediently and Ruggerio and Guido on both sides shoved him through the crowd towards yet another mob at Bettichino’s door and into the singer’s more spacious, brilliantly lit dressing room. It seemed in fact a parlor where some five or six men and women were already seated with their wine, and Bettichino still in his costume and paint rose immediately to greet Tonio.
In a moment of confusion, the room was emptied at Bettichino’s insistence, except for Guido, who stood just behind the singer, his face silently urging Tonio to be his most courteous.
Tonio bowed his head. He spoke softly.
“Signore, I’ve learned much from you tonight. I could not have learned it had we not performed on the same stage….”
“Oh, stop it,” Bettichino scoffed. He laughed out loud. “Spare me such nonsense, Signore Treschi,” he said. “We both know this was your triumph. I must apologize for my devotees, but I doubt they ever set a better stage for a rival.”
He paused. But he was not finished. He drew himself up as though he were in the midst of a little debate, his expression intensified by the paint he still wore, gold dust and white gloss.
“You know,” he said, “it’s been too long since I gave my best on any stage anywhere. But I gave it tonight, you saw to it that I had to give it. And for