of those many Roman churches he didn’t know, full of shadows and the scent and light of hundreds of candles.
Painted saints peered down on him from gilded shrines, black-dressed women moving silently towards the distant crib where the Baby Jesus opened His arms.
And wandering the alcoves, Tonio saw a saint he’d never known. And in the shadows before the little altar he went down on his knees, and then stretched out full length on the stones, burying his face in his arms as he cried and cried, unable to stop himself even for those gentle Roman women who knelt beside him again and again to whisper some small comfort.
17
FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Guido and Tonio lived and breathed opera as never before. All day they went over the “mistakes” and the weaknesses of the previous night’s performance, Guido scribbling changes in accompaniment and giving Tonio a refinement of instruction never possible in the past. Signora Bianchi ripped stitches, adjusted panniers, sewed on new lace and paste jewels. Paolo was ever ready for the slightest errand.
Bettichino outdid himself with trills and high notes while Tonio bested his every trick. In the duets, their voices created a singular loveliness unrivaled in the memory of those who heard them, and the theater, silenced over and over by these flashes of brilliance, quickly erupted in shouts and Bravos. A thunderous applause followed every curtain.
Society congregated without cease in the first and second tiers. Foreigners swelled the card games and suppers, and every performance was sold out before Ruggerio even opened the doors.
Each night Guido struggled through the backstage corridors, pushed and shoved by the crowd, agents at his elbow with offers for seasons in Dresden, Naples, Madrid.
Flowers were brought in, snuffboxes, letters tied with ribbon. Coachmen were waiting for answers. The glum Count di Stefano nodded once again patiently when a firm Maestro insisted Tonio was not yet free for the social whirlwind.
Finally, after the seventh successful performance, Guido sat down in the cluttered dressing room with Signora Bianchi to make a list of those invitations that Tonio must accept first.
For now, he could see Count Raffaele di Stefano any time he wanted. He could go tonight.
Guido had no doubts any longer. His pupil had passed every conceivable test. He had offers from some of the best opera houses in the world. And for the first time, Guido accepted Ruggerio’s assurance that the opera would run through the carnival.
But Guido, tired as he was, had not fully felt his exultation until early the following morning when he awoke to see Tonio by his bed, gazing out of the open window.
Count di Stefano had taken Tonio away that evening almost by force. They’d quarreled, made it up, and driven off. And though di Stefano’s devotion alarmed Guido somewhat, he had also found it amusing.
He, himself, free of the Contessa, who had gone back to Naples, had spent a delicious four hours with a young dark-skinned eunuch from Palermo. The boy—Marcello was his name—sang well enough for small parts, Guido had told him that frankly.
And then it was lovemaking of the slowest, most rapturous and delicate sort, the young one a master of every sensuous secret. His skin had smelt like warm bread, and he’d been one of those few eunuchs with plump little breasts as delectable and succulent as those of a woman.
He’d been grateful afterwards for the few coins Guido pressed in his hands. And begging to be allowed backstage, had promised to buy a new frock coat with the money Guido gave him.
Guido, realizing these delightful encounters awaited him nightly, was trying to take it in stride and think like a human being.
Now it was almost dawn and a cold wintry light filled the room like a vapor as Tonio turned and approached him.
Guido rubbed his eyes. It seemed to him Tonio was covered with tiny pinpoints of light. He realized that these were droplets of rain, yet Tonio seemed an apparition, the light sparkling on his gold velvet coat, on the white ruffles at his collar, and on his softly mussed black hair. When he sat beside Guido, he appeared full of a shimmering energy as if he had not slept the entire night.
Guido sat up and put out his arms. He felt Tonio’s lips brush his forehead, and then his eyelids, and then that close, utterly familiar embrace.
Tonio seemed splendid and almost miraculous to him in this moment, and then Guido heard him say in a low voice: