He had just received another installment of his allowance from Naples, and was wondering if he should leave for Verona and Padua. This city was magnificent, the only place he had encountered in his roamings that was all that men said it was. And yet it was too dense, too dark, too confining. Night after night he homed to the piazza merely to see that vast stretch of ground and sky and feel that he could breathe freely.
He watched the rain slant down under the arches of the arcade. A dark shape crowded the door, but then it passed into the room. And again there was the rain swept in by the wind so that he could almost feel it on his warm face and on the backs of his hands which were folded before him. He drained the glass. He shut his eyes.
Then he opened them abruptly, because someone was seated beside him.
He turned slowly, cautiously, and saw a man with a commonplace and brutal face, his beard so roughly shaved that it left a hide of bluish bristle.
“Has the maestro from Naples found what he was looking for?” asked the man under his breath.
Guido took his time before answering. He took a swallow of white wine. Then he followed it with a swallow of scalding hot coffee. He liked the coffee cutting through the softness created in him by the wine.
“I don’t know you,” he said, looking at the open door. “How is it you know me?”
“I have a pupil who will interest you. He wishes to be taken at once by you to Naples.”
“Don’t be so certain he will interest me,” said Guido. “And who is he that he tells me to take him to Naples?”
“You’d be a fool not to be interested,” said the man. He had drawn so close to Guido that Guido could feel his breath. And smell it also.
Guido’s eyes turned mechanically to the side until he was staring at the man. “Come to the point,” he said, “or get away from me.”
The man made a little smile that disfigured his face. “Some eunuch you are,” he muttered.
Guido’s hand moved very slowly but obviously under his cape until he closed his fingers around the handle of the stiletto. And he smiled, having no real appreciation of how truly appalling were the contrasts in his face, the sensuous mouth, the flattened nose, and the eyes which alone might have been swimming and pretty.
“Listen to me,” came the man’s slow murmur. “And if you ever tell anyone what I have to say, it would be better for you if you had never set foot in this city.” He glanced to the door; then he continued. “The boy is highborn. He wishes to make a great sacrifice for his voice. But there are those who might try to dissuade him. It must be done with delicacy and very quickly. And it is his wish to leave as soon as it is done, do you follow me? There is a town south of Venice called Flovigo. Go there tonight, to the hostelry. And the boy will come to you.”
“What boy? Who?” Guido’s eyes narrowed. “The parents must consent to this. The inquisitors of state would—”
“I am a Venetian.” The man’s smile never wavered. “And you are not a Venetian. You take the boy to Naples, that’s enough.”
“Tell me who this boy is now!” Guido’s voice had the tone of a threat.
“You know him. You heard him this afternoon in San Marco. You’ve heard him with his vagabond singers in the streets.”
“I don’t believe you!” Guido whispered.
The man showed a leather purse to Guido. “Go to your inn,” he said. “Prepare to leave immediately.”
For a moment, Guido stood in the rain outside his door as if it might bring him back to his senses. He was thinking with portions of his mind he had not used in all his life; he felt the unusual exhilaration of cunning. Part of him said go at once and get any ship out of here that will take you. Another said what is going to happen will happen whether you are here to benefit from it or not. But what exactly is going to happen? He was startled when he felt a hand on his elbow. He had not even seen this person approaching. But through the thin chilling veil of rain, he could not even perceive this man’s expression. All he felt was the hand on his arm causing him immediate