Read Cry to Heaven for Free Online Page B
Authors: Anne Rice
first duet, he heard that magnificent voice behind him lifting and carrying his own, that strident power.
There came another duet, and another after that, and when they could find no more they made duets of the arias. They sang everything in the score that they liked, some of what they didn’t like, and then went on to other music. Finally Alessandro was persuaded to share the little bench, and they had their coffee brought to them.
And the singing went on and on, until all formality had left them. They were merely two people; even their speaking voices were different. Alessandro pointed out little aspects ofthis or that composition. He stopped now and then, insisting that he must hear Tonio alone, and then his compliments came in a warm rush as if he must make Tonio understand the greatness of his gift and that this was no idle flattery.
When both of them finally stopped it was because someone had just placed a candelabrum in front of them. The house was dark; it was late, and they had forgotten everything.
Tonio was quiet, and the shadowy look of things oppressed him. The room seemed to yawn about him, and the lights from the canal flickering in the glass made him want to light up the entire chamber with every candle he could lay hands on. The music was still throbbing in his head, and pain was throbbing with it, and when he saw the soft smile on Alessandro’s face, a musing, a look of awe, he felt an overwhelming affection for him.
He wanted to tell him about that long ago night when he’d first sung in San Marco, how he had loved it, how he had never forgotten it. But it was impossible to put into words that first childish wish to be a singer, impossible to say of course I cannot be that, impossible to tell him the humor in it, that he didn’t know Alessandro was…what? He stopped his thoughts, suddenly humiliated.
“Listen to me, you must stay to supper,” he said, rising. “Beppo, please tell Angelo I should like him to dine with us also. And tell Lena right away. We’ll sup in the main dining room.”
The table was quickly laid out with all the appropriate linen and silver. He asked for more candelabra, and seating himself at the head of the table as he always did when alone, Tonio was soon deep in conversation.
Alessandro laughed easily. His answers were long. He complimented the wine. And soon he was describing the Doge’s more recent banquet.
These were monstrous affairs, hundreds sitting down to table, and the people came in through the open doors from the piazzetta to watch everything.
“Well, one silver plate was missing”—Alessandro smiled, raising his heavy dark brown eyebrows—“and imagine, Excellency, all the heads of state waiting patiently for the silver to be counted yet again and again. I could hardly keep from laughing.”
But there was no real disrespect in the way he told the story, and he was quickly launching into another. He had a languid refinement to him; his long face in the candlelight looked slightly unearthly in its smoothness.
And Tonio couldn’t help realizing in the very midst of this that Angelo and Beppo were sitting quietly to his right, doing everything that he told them to do. A second bottle of wine, Tonio suggested, and immediately Angelo sent for it.
“And dessert, you must,” he said. “If we have nothing in the house, send someone out for chocolate, or ices.”
Beppo was gazing at him with admiration in fact, and Angelo seemed ever so slightly intimidated.
“But tell me what is it like when you are singing for a king, the king of France, the king of Poland….”
“It’s the same singing for anyone, Excellency,” Alessandro said. “You want it to be flawless. For your own ears, you cannot bear to make a mistake. That is why I never sing when I’m alone in my rooms; I don’t want to hear anything that is not…well, perfect.”
“But the opera, didn’t you ever want to sing on the stage?” Tonio pressed.
Alessandro put his fingers
There came another duet, and another after that, and when they could find no more they made duets of the arias. They sang everything in the score that they liked, some of what they didn’t like, and then went on to other music. Finally Alessandro was persuaded to share the little bench, and they had their coffee brought to them.
And the singing went on and on, until all formality had left them. They were merely two people; even their speaking voices were different. Alessandro pointed out little aspects ofthis or that composition. He stopped now and then, insisting that he must hear Tonio alone, and then his compliments came in a warm rush as if he must make Tonio understand the greatness of his gift and that this was no idle flattery.
When both of them finally stopped it was because someone had just placed a candelabrum in front of them. The house was dark; it was late, and they had forgotten everything.
Tonio was quiet, and the shadowy look of things oppressed him. The room seemed to yawn about him, and the lights from the canal flickering in the glass made him want to light up the entire chamber with every candle he could lay hands on. The music was still throbbing in his head, and pain was throbbing with it, and when he saw the soft smile on Alessandro’s face, a musing, a look of awe, he felt an overwhelming affection for him.
He wanted to tell him about that long ago night when he’d first sung in San Marco, how he had loved it, how he had never forgotten it. But it was impossible to put into words that first childish wish to be a singer, impossible to say of course I cannot be that, impossible to tell him the humor in it, that he didn’t know Alessandro was…what? He stopped his thoughts, suddenly humiliated.
“Listen to me, you must stay to supper,” he said, rising. “Beppo, please tell Angelo I should like him to dine with us also. And tell Lena right away. We’ll sup in the main dining room.”
The table was quickly laid out with all the appropriate linen and silver. He asked for more candelabra, and seating himself at the head of the table as he always did when alone, Tonio was soon deep in conversation.
Alessandro laughed easily. His answers were long. He complimented the wine. And soon he was describing the Doge’s more recent banquet.
These were monstrous affairs, hundreds sitting down to table, and the people came in through the open doors from the piazzetta to watch everything.
“Well, one silver plate was missing”—Alessandro smiled, raising his heavy dark brown eyebrows—“and imagine, Excellency, all the heads of state waiting patiently for the silver to be counted yet again and again. I could hardly keep from laughing.”
But there was no real disrespect in the way he told the story, and he was quickly launching into another. He had a languid refinement to him; his long face in the candlelight looked slightly unearthly in its smoothness.
And Tonio couldn’t help realizing in the very midst of this that Angelo and Beppo were sitting quietly to his right, doing everything that he told them to do. A second bottle of wine, Tonio suggested, and immediately Angelo sent for it.
“And dessert, you must,” he said. “If we have nothing in the house, send someone out for chocolate, or ices.”
Beppo was gazing at him with admiration in fact, and Angelo seemed ever so slightly intimidated.
“But tell me what is it like when you are singing for a king, the king of France, the king of Poland….”
“It’s the same singing for anyone, Excellency,” Alessandro said. “You want it to be flawless. For your own ears, you cannot bear to make a mistake. That is why I never sing when I’m alone in my rooms; I don’t want to hear anything that is not…well, perfect.”
“But the opera, didn’t you ever want to sing on the stage?” Tonio pressed.
Alessandro put his fingers