up her mind to see that as many guests as possible met her musicians and would come to the opera tomorrow even if they never had been to the theater before.
But the success of the opera was almost assured.
It would run every night right through to the end of the carnival, Ruggerio was certain, and both Tonio and Guido were approached several times in the evening about their future plans.
Bologna, Milan, even Venice was mentioned. Venice! Tonio had excused himself at once. But it thrilled him, this talk, just as it thrilled him to be presented over and over again to the royal guests.
At last he and Guido were alone together. The door was locked. And confessing a slight amazement at the heat of their desire, they made love.
Afterwards, Guido slept, but Tonio lay awake as if he could not let the night go.
* * *
Finally, the winter sun was spilling in dusty shafts onto the tiled floor, and Tonio was walking alone back and forth through these grand and cluttered rooms, staring now and then at a heap of gifts and letters as tall as himself as it rose from a round marble table.
He put the wine aside, and sent for some strong coffee.
And bringing up a chair, he commenced to shuffle through all this crisp and decorated parchment. He told himself he was not looking for anything. He was merely doing what had to be done. But he was looking for something.
Oh, the Venetian names were everywhere. A chilled and quiet person inside of him read the greetings of his cousin Catrina, realizing, against her word, she was here. Well, he would not see her. He was too happy now for that. And the Lemmo family, they too had been in the audience, and other Lisani, and a dozen others whom he scarcely knew.
So the world had seen him lost in that feminine guise uttering sounds that belonged to children and gods. Old nightmares, old humiliations, it had been as marvelous as his wildest dreams.
He took a deep swallow of the hot and aromatic coffee.
He read through a handful of little notes full of warm superlatives, reliving odd moments of the performance as he did so. And then sitting back, whistling with the edge of one stiff letter, he realized at this very hour the abbati were probably gathered in the coffeehouses to relive it all again as well.
There were invitations here of all sorts. Two from Russian nobles, one from a Bavarian, another from a powerful duke. And several were for late night suppers after the performance, and they intrigued him the most.
He knew what was expected here. And he felt the lure of it, as if a distant street band were summoning him by means of a rhythmic beat that penetrated the very walls.
He thought of Raffaele di Stefano and just how long it would take him now to dress and go to Raffaele’s house. Raffaele would be asleep, the room would be warm. But then sleep nudged him ever so gently and he folded his arms and sat back, shutting his eyes.
There was nothing here from Christina. And why should there be?
Why should there be?
Yet rousing himself he took one more look. And as he fanned out those letters which remained unopened, he saw a handwriting he knew.
He couldn’t place it. And opening the letter, he read the following words:
My Tonio,
What has befallen you would have defeated a lesser man. But you made it your victory. Therein lies a measure few could live up to. Tonight you made the angels take heed. May God go with you always,
Alessandro
And then almost as an afterthought, the address of his lodgings in Rome was scribbled at the bottom.
It was almost an hour later that Tonio, fully dressed, emerged from the palazzo. The air was bracing and clean, and he walked the few narrow streets that separated his house from that mentioned in Alessandro’s note.
And when the door of Alessandro’s room opened and Tonio lifted his eyes to that familiar face, he felt himself shaken as he had seldom been in his life. He had never felt so cold, so small suddenly, standing in that empty passage, though he had long ago met Alessandro’s height.
Then he felt Alessandro take hold of him, and for the first time since he had left Naples, he was near to tears.
He stood very still, the tears stinging him slightly, but never breaking loose, and it seemed a wave of pain silently inundated him.