Free Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice Page A

her. And gradually, he realized her face had become that perfect mask of rage he’d seen so often in childhood.
    He raised his hands almost before he meant to do it, and yet her first blow caught him square on the side of his face and the shock of pain instantly infuriated him.
    “Stop it!” he cried out. She hit him again, and then came her left hand, as from behind her clenched teeth she let out one shrieking moan after another.
    “Stop it, Mamma, stop it!” he cried, his hands crossed before his face, his fury growing stronger and stronger. “I won’t stand for it now, stop it.”
    But again and again, the blows assaulted him and she was screaming now, and he never in his life so hated her.
    He caught her wrist and, forcing her back, felt her left hand grabbing at his hair and pulling it cruelly. “Don’t do this to me!” he shouted. “Don’t do it!”
    And he embraced her, sought to crush her against his chest and hold her helpless. She was sobbing; her nails had drawn blood. And he realized with a scalding shame that the doors to the Grand Salon were being opened.
    Before she knew it, he saw his father was there and, with him, his secretary, Signore Lemmo. Signore Lemmo backed away, vanished.
    And as she slapped at Tonio again, screamed at him, Andrea came towards her.
    It was his robe she must have seen first, the great sweep ofcolor, and she weakened all at once, falling backwards. Andrea took her in his arms; he opened himself to her and slowly enfolded her.
    Tonio, his face burning, stood helpless watching it. Never before in his life had he seen his father touch his mother. And she coiled against her husband as if she would not blemish his robes, as if she wanted to hide herself in her own arms as she was crying hysterically.
    “My children,” Andrea whispered. His soft hazel eyes moved over her loose clothes, her bare feet, and then he looked at his son slowly, sadly.
    “I want to die.” She shuddered. “I want to die….” Her voice was coming deep out of her throat. His hand touched her hair delicately. Then the white fingers spread themselves out, closing on her small head and pressing it to him.
    Tonio wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. He lifted his head and said softly:
    “This is my doing, Father.”
    “Your Excellency, let me die,” she whispered.
    “Go out, my son,” Andrea said gently. Yet he motioned for Tonio to come to him, and he clasped his hand firmly. The touch was cold and dry, but ineffably affectionate. “Go now, and leave me with your mother.”
    Tonio stood still. He was staring at her, her narrow back heaving with her sobs, her hair that sleek mass falling over his father’s arm. He pleaded silently with his father.
    “Go on, my son,” said Andrea with infinite patience. As if to reassure Tonio, he took his hand again and crushed it softly with his powdery dry fingers before letting it go and motioning to the open doorway.

11
    I T WAS THAT STAGE of life at which, had Guido been a normal boy, his voice would have “changed,” dropping down from the boy’s soprano to a tenor or basso. And this is always a dangerous time for eunuchs. No one knows why, but it seems the body is trying to work the magic for which it no longer has the power. And the voice is threatened by that vain effort, so that many singing teachers do not allow their castrati to sing during these months. The voice, it is hoped, will all the sooner recover.
    And in general it does.
    But sometimes it is lost.
    And in the case of Guido, this tragedy happened.
    Half a year passed before anyone could be certain. And these were months of inexpressible agony for Guido. Again and again, he could offer only hoarse and lame sounds. His maestros were grief-stricken. Gino and Alfredo could not look him in the eye. Even those who had envied him were dumb with horror.
    But of course no one felt this loss as Guido did, not even Maestro Cavalla, who had trained him.
    And one afternoon, gathering all the