“I am all too human,” Marianna whispered. There was something irresistibly girlish in the way she almost snuggled to Catrina. That anyone could be mean to her, that he could be mean to her, seemed impossible to Tonio. He felt like crying suddenly; he felt like singing.
“Play, play,” said Vincenzo.
“I don’t see why,” said the old senator, who was much younger than Andrea, “I must wait for all that music to start before I have my supper.”
Liveried servants moved in and out offering crystal glasses of wine. The old senator spilled a red stain on his lace ruff and stared down at it helplessly. He had been a handsome man and was impressive still, his gray hair growing in tight waves back from his temples. He had eyes of jet black and a hook of a nose of which he seemed proud when he lifted his head. But now he looked like a baby.
Tonio stepped to the front. The parterre was already jammed and so were the three tiers above him.
Masks everywhere from the gondoliers in the pit to the sober merchants high above with their wives in such proper black, the hum and tinkle of talk and drink seeming to rise in waves of no discernible rhythm.
“Tonio, you’re too young for this,” Catrina said over her shoulder. “But let me tell you about Caffarelli….” He did not look at her because he did not wish to see that deliciously animalian slit of her mouth, naked and red, beneath the white mask that made her eyes look so feline. Her arms in her burgundy satin appeared so soft he gritted his teeth with a little vision of himself squeezing them mercilessly.
But he listened intently to all this foolishness about the great castrato who was to sing tonight, that he had been discovered by his mistress’ husband while in bed with her in Rome. In bed, Catrina said. His face smarted to think of his mother and Alessandro listening to this! And forced to flee, Caffarelli spent a damp night hiding in a cistern. For days after that, the man’s bravos pursued him everywhere, but the lady gave Caffarelli bravos of his own who followed him all around until he threw everything up and left the city.
Andrea’s words came back to Tonio in a confusion, something about the world, being tested by the world. The world…But he could keep his mind on nothing now but Caffarelli. He was going to hear a great castrato for the first time in his life, and all else could wait, for all he cared, and it was beyond him anyway.
“They say he’ll fight with everyone before he’s finished, and if the prima donna’s pretty he won’t leave her alone for a second. Alessandro, is it all true?”
“Signora, you know a great deal more than I do,” Alessandro laughed.
“Well, I’ll give him five minutes,” said Vincenzo, “and if he hasn’t captured my heart or my ear, I’m off to the San Moise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone is here tonight,” said Catrina. “This is the place, and besides, it’s raining.”
Tonio turned his chair around, straddling it, as he looked at the distant curtained stage. He could hear his mother laughing. The old senator had said they should all go home and hear her sing a little song with Tonio. Then he could have his supper. “You will sing for me soon, my dear, won’t you?”
“Sometimes I think I married a stomach,” said Catrina. “Bet your clothes piece by piece, then,” she said to Vincenzo. “Start with that vest; no, the shirt. I like the shirt.”
Meantime a fight had broken out in the rear of the house below. There was shouting and stomping, and quickly everything was restored to order. Beautiful girls moved through the chairs hawking wine and other refreshments.
Alessandro rose up against the wall of the box like a shadow behind Tonio.
And just then the musicians began to appear, slipping into their padded chairs with a great fidgeting of lamps and rustling of papers. In fact, librettos were being thumbed everywhere; there had been a brisk sale of them in the lobby.
And when the young unknown composer of the opera stepped to the front, there were loyal cheers from up above and a rash of clapping.
It seemed the lights dimmed, but not enough. Tonio rested his chin on his hands against the back of the chair. The composer’s wig didn’t fit and neither did his heavy brocade coat and he was