was going to happen! And when he thought of her screaming and hitting him in the supper room, he felt like a traitor!
He had wanted her to be caught; he had wanted his father to see to the core of her illness. Take away the wine, make her give it up, bring her out of this darkness in which she languished like a sleeping princess in a French fairy tale.
But he hadn’t led her to the supper room for this to happen! He had not meant to betray her. And why was no one angry with him? What had he been thinking to take her there? When he thought of her alone now, with physicians, and with cousins who weren’t of her blood, he couldn’t endure it. His face felt hot. The tears were right behind his eyes. And this was worse than anything.
Yet somewhere embedded in all this, and quite beyond his reach, was the mystery of why she had changed so, why she had screamed, why she had struck him. Who was this mysterious brother in Istanbul?
It was the second night after the incident that he was to learn the answer to everything.
As he took his supper alone in his room, he had no inkling of it. The sky was a lovely deep blue, full of moonlight and spring breeze, and all up and down the canal, it seemed, the boatmen were singing. A verse flung out here to be answered there; deep bassos, high tenors, and someplace far away the violins and flutes of his street singers.
But as he lay on his bed, fully dressed and too tired to ring for his valet, he thought certain he heard within the labyrinth of the house itself his mother singing. And when he dismissed that as foolish, there came the high and remarkably powerful soprano of Alessandro.
When he closed his eyes and held his breath, he could hear the thin rapid notes of the harpsichord.
It had just become real to him when there came a knock on his door, and his father’s elderly valet, Guiseppe, told him to come: his father wished to see him.
He saw his father first among the assemblage. He was in his bed, and even against his pillows, he appeared regal. He wore such a heavy dressing gown, it had the shape of patrician robes and it was made of deep green velvet.
But there was a frailty to him, a remoteness.
The little group in the room was at a distance from him, and when Tonio entered, his mother stood up from the keyboard. She wore a dress of pink silk, and her waist was frighteningly small, and her face had a pallor. But she was restored to herself, and her eyes were clear and brimming with some wondrous secret. Her lips were warm on his cheek; and it seemed she wanted to speak, but knew she must wait.
As he bent to kiss his father’s hand, she was very near him.
“Sit there, my son,” said Andrea. And then at once he commenced to speak, his voice having something of that timelessness that characterized his lively expression. It made his obvious age seem just a slight injustice.
“Those who love the truth more than they love me have often said I don’t belong to this century.”
“Signore, if that is so, then this century is lost,” said Signore Lemmo immediately.
“Flattery and nonsense,” said Andrea. “I fear it is true and the century is lost but there is no connection. As I was saying before my secretary rushed to give me unnecessary comfort, I am not of this time and have not bent easily with it.
“But I won’t bore you with a litany of my failings, as I trust they would prove more tiresome than instructive. I’ve come to a decision that your mother must see more of this world, and you must see more of it with her. And Alessandro, having long wished a leave from the Ducal Chapel, has consented to become a member of this household. From now on, he will give you your music lessons, my son, as you have a great talent; and perfection in that art can teach you much about the rest of life if you let it. But he shall also escort your mother whenever she goes out, and it is my wish that you take time from your studies to accompany both of them. Your mother is pale from seclusion; but you suffer none of her inveterate shyness. You must see