The Choirboy, part 2

Following requests from some readers, here are some news about that 
old school, its choir, and some of its singers...

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                    The Choirboy
                    ============

          A story of music, friendship and courage
          
                      Part Two


School had restarted after the summer vacations. They were eight- 
graders now, a real change... On the first day at school, Peter 
noticed that several of his classmates had changed their voices 
over the vacations! Among them were two fellow choir members, who 
were now condemned to the infamous ranks of the mute choirboys, 
until they regained some control and could rejoin as basses or 
tenors. In fact, now more than three quarters of the boys in his 
class had developed men's voices! Soon Bertrand and himself would 
have the only high voices around, and it would be obvious. When he 
talked about this to his long- time friend, Bertrand just exhibited 
his accustomed cheerfulness: "So what! Let them find out! Or do you 
want to try to convince your audiences you are still a boy, when 
you get old and fat?" Old and fat, what an idea! But Bertrand was 
right, at least getting old would be unavoidable, and someday it 
would just make no sense any longer to hide their condition. But 
what is old? Fifteen? Or twenty?  No, really, anything more than 
thirteen was being old! At least for now. It was a relative thing.

They had physical education on the very first day at school. What a 
way to start a school year! And it was even worse than usually: 
They had a new sports teacher, the guy had been at the military and 
the only thing he knew was shouting around, making the boys run, 
leap, and do all kind of exercises until they were begging for 
mercy, only to laugh at them and call them lazy ladies. Such a 
bastard! Peter had nothing against physical activity, he loved 
swimming, biking, climbing, but for a purpose! Running around the 
gym room like crazy, leaping like a frog, just for the sake of 
taking a fraction of a second less than someone else, was for 
idiots, not for him! He shared that view with Bertrand, and for 
that matter, with most of the other boys too. Rarely had Peter 
disliked a new teacher more than he did this guy. It was rejection 
at the first sight, confirmed during that first sports class.

When it was finally over, the sweaty, exhausted boys went to the 
locker room. Peter sat down, trying to find his breath back, while 
Bertrand leaned against the tiled wall. But the peace didn't last 
long, the new teacher came in and raised hell again: "Quick, lazy 
ladies, into the showers! One, two, one two!" Peter would have 
killed him, if there had been a way. Soon the showers were in use, 
turning smelly bodies back into something socially more acceptable. 
Peter and Bertrand did not even try the hiding game they had played 
before the vacations. Why should they? They parents knew it all 
already, and the classmates would find out soon enough anyway, so 
there was no need to try to keep their secret. They pulled their 
wet sport garments off and went showering too, openly. But everyone 
was so tired from the workout, that nobody looked at the neighbor. 
It was actually funny to walk around openly without beeing seen! 
Peter enjoyed the feeling! At least something to enjoy, thanks to 
that bastard of a teacher!
 
That afternoon the entire school choir would met with the music 
teacher. The new fifth-graders were invited to attend too, so each 
of them could decide if he wanted to join the choir that year. Mr. 
Holtmann greeted his singers warmly, and expressed his gratefulness 
for all those candidates who were attending. Indeed there were more 
fifth-graders than in previous years. It must be due to the great 
success the choir had enjoyed the year before, thanks to boys like 
Peter, Bertrand, Robert, Jimmy, Thomas, and of course Marc, that 
skinny, bony alto singer who had done those great solos in the 
Messiah... The teacher looked over the group of stirring, talking 
youths. Yes, his star singers were all there! Except of course for 
the older Tom, the bass soloist, and some others boys who had 
finished school and were now at faraway places entering life as 
adults.

Then began the job of sorting them. This was quite a lot of work. 
Not so much with the older youths, they pretty much had settled 
voices and knew where they belonged. But there were those twelve-
year-olds who believed they could sing bass... They had to be 
talked into their roles first. The most unpleasant job was 
convincing a couple boys about the fact that they could no longer 
sing treble or alto, and not yet tenor or bass. Mr. Holtmann never 
threw such a boy out of the choir, he let them stay as members even 
while they couldn't produce a single useful sound. He tried to make 
it easy for them to enter the "fifth voice" of the choir, that of 
the mute choirboys. But also he had the pleasure to conduct voice 
tests on those whose voices had consolidated enough over the last 
months, so that they now could start singing tenor or bass. Indeed, 
there were two new tenors with promising voices, and his dear 
Robert, star alto soloist until several months ago, was among those 
who now could be called real basses, with a nice, warm and well 
controlled voice!
   
The more demanding part of the work was voice-testing the new choir 
members. There were about twenty fifth-graders looking for 
admissal. It was great to have so many boys interested in singing! 
But he had to test each one's voice. This test had two parts: In 
the first he made each of the boys sing the notes he played on the 
piano. The main purpose of this was checking if the boys had 
reasonably good musical ears, and testing their voices' range, so 
he could classify them as trebles or altos. The second part was the 
one all the older members looked forward to each year: The new 
wannabies had to sing a song of their own choice, in front of the 
entire choir, to show they had the necessary character to sing in 
public! It was this test that was regarded as the most useful 
selection criteria. And it was no secret that Mr. Holtmann used 
this test too as a means to select his possible future soloists.
   
Peter enjoyed the displays of those small boys. Some sung very 
seriously, showing that they had spent much of the vacations 
preparing for this test. Others made a comical thing out of it, 
acting while they sang. Two asked for permission to take this test 
together, and sang a nice duo with their crystal clear, although 
still untrained voices. Peter remembered his own admission, when he 
had sung a duo too with Bertrand. How bad he sung at that time! But 
it had been good enough, and here he was, his life changed, himself 
changed. Together with Bertrand. Always together.

Another two boys unfortunately failed the test, as they could not 
get their mouths open and voices out in front of all those people. 
It was sad, but every year a few boys failed admission this way.

Then Mr. Holtmann gave an outline of the program for the year. It 
involved a few mayor new works, two dozen smaller songs, plus their 
existing repertoire. Several concerts were already planned, others 
would be added, and there was the likelyhood for a few recordings 
too. Peter noted with satisfaction that all the mayor new works had 
extensive and interesting treble soloist parts. He knew who would 
get them! He smiled. But something had to be done to get Bertrand 
in, too! Obviously Mr. Holtmann was considering just one treble 
soloist...

-----ooooo-----

The next day Peter had sore muscles. He was not surprised when 
Bertrand greeted him with a sour look. He had the same trouble, and 
even worse: "Man, I can feel every single muscle fibre in my entire 
body! This guy is a torturer! We must stop him, or he will kill us! 
I can barely walk!" And he let himself fall into the chair, 
dramatically throwing back his head and letting his arms hang down. 
Peter laughed, and he was tempted to punch his friend's stomach, so 
openly exposed in that position. They would have the afternoon 
free. "Let's go to the lake after lunch, a little biking and 
swimming will work wonders!" Bertrand pulled his head forward and 
said "Grrrr". But then he laughed and agreed.

On the trail through the forest Bertrand barely stopped 
complaining. "This damn guy! Oh, my legs! They should hang such 
bastards! Ouch, my arms! We will have to poison that torturer! Ah, 
my neck!" Peter smiled. "But your lungs are quite well, judging 
from all that brabbling!" "No, they hurt too, at least the muscles 
on my ribs..."  Peter felt his leg muscles aching too, but it 
seemed that Bertrand really hat gotten the harder part.

Once at the lakeshore at their accustomed place, they quickly 
undressed, climbed their well-known tree branch and toyed around on 
it, until Peter lost balance and splashed down. When he surfaced, 
Bertrand jumped after him, and the two swam out into the lake. It 
felt so great to swim naked in that water, the silent nature and 
the good friend as the only companions... Only that the friend 
wasn't as silent as nature. He kept complaining about his muscle 
ache. Soon they turned back, climbed out of the water and lay down 
in the grass, under the still warm sun. Peter enjoyed that feeling, 
and Bertrand was at last silent. But not for long. "Know what?" he 
asked. "What?" answered Peter lazily. "It still aches." "Is it 
really so bad?"  "Of course. Or do you think I'm mimicking? I can't 
think of anything else! This guy should be hung! We should complain 
to the director!" 

Peter laughed. "Let's try something. Hold still." He got on his 
knees, and grabbed one of Bertrands legs. "Relax!" he ordered, and 
started kneading the muscles. He felt Bertrand tense the leg. He 
patted it while saying "No, you must relax!" Now indeed he felt how 
Bertrand tried to relax his leg. He massaged the muscle, feeling 
the bone through it, and feeling some knotty lumps too. He massaged 
them intensely, while Bertrand moaned, the leg stiffened, softened 
again...  Peter continued working up the leg, finishing at his 
friend's rear cheek, then he worked along the other leg. Bertrand 
had become very quiet. Peter started massaging Bertrand's back. 
There weren't many muscles on those bones... Strange that they 
could hurt so much! He grinned while he continued kneading his 
friend's back. He knew how it feels, as his mother sometimes 
scratched his back... Then he reached the neck, massaged around it, 
then worked along one arm and then the other. Bertrand sometimes 
shuddered, but didn't say another word. Then Peter put one of 
Bertrands arms along his body, and used the other arm as a lever to 
roll him over. Bertrand didn't oppose, but rather behaved like a 
sack full of grain. Some grass was sticking to his friend's wet and 
suntanned chest and belly. Peter saw Bertrands smiling face, as he 
started massaging his chest, sides, working down towards his belly. 
Bertrand shivered more often, until he could no longer control 
himself and giggled. "That tickles!" He said. Peter now used just 
one finger to slowly press holes into Bertrands belly, a kind of 
massage that seemed to cause less tickling. While he did it, he 
locked closely at the castrati's groin. Bertrand's scrotum had 
almost disappeared over the last months. Down there he was looking 
almost like himself, only that Peter had one larger scar instead of 
two small ones. Bertrand giggled again, and Peter took this as the 
keyword to start tickling him with both hands, making his friend 
burst into machine-gun-like laughter, while he tried to fend Peter 
off. The two rolled around on the grass, until Bertrand pressed 
out, between involuntary laughter salves, that he was about to pee 
all over the grass. Peter stopped tickling him and rolled out of 
reach, waited for his friend to regain control, and then asked "How 
did this feel?" "It felt great, except for the tickling. It 
produces such a strange and nice feeling in the forehead!  But tell 
you what? My muscles still ache... This damn teacher! They should 
hang him!!!"

-----ooooo-----

One afternoon, while Peter was doing his homework, the telephone 
rang. His mother answered, after all most calls usually were for 
her. But this time she called him: "Peter, it's for you!"  "Who is 
it?" he asked, while we walked over to the phone. "No idea", mother 
said softly, "but sounds like a lady."  A lady?! Strange! I don't 
have anything to do with ladies! Thinking this, Peter grabbed the 
phone. "Yes, Peter speaking." He almost sounded professional. "Hi, 
Peter, how do you do?" came the voice on the phone. It was a lady 
indeed. No boy sounded like that. "I'm fine. But excuse my 
frankness, I have no idea whom I'm speaking to!"  "Oh sorry, I 
should have identified myself! I'm Sarah Brown, do you remember 
me?" Sarah Brown? Must be the shrink! The psychiatrist that funnily 
shared the school factotum's family name! "Dr. Brown, it's you? 
Nice to meet you again!" It was sure strange to tell a shrink 
that's nice to meet her, but really Peter felt that way! Dr. Brown 
had done so much for him, she had kept him out of the funnyhouse, 
or at least so did he think. "Yes Peter, it's me. I need your help. 
Can we meet at some moment? Perhaps I visit you at home? Or can you 
come here?" Now that was strange! A doctor calling a former one-
time patient for help! Peter almost had to laugh. "Sure we can 
meet, but do you really think I can help you?"  "Better than anyone 
else, Peter." Oh oh, this was weird. But Peter felt honored. "I 
think I can visit you right now. Is this OK?" "Oh, great! I have 
only one more patient this afternoon, I will be ready with him half 
an hour from now. But I don't want to bother you, if you have 
anything important to do..."  Peter was quick to reply: "No, 
Dr.Brown, I'm just doing homework, and I can do that later! Do you 
have some place where I can park my bike?" "Oh sure, Peter, there 
is room enough here." Peter turned to mum, who had come by, 
surprised by the dialog, of which she could hear just one 
side. "Dr. Brown wants to see me, can I go right now, mum?" She 
looked a bit puzzled at her son. "Why not!" she said. "Can I talk 
to her?" Peter handed over the phone, and his mother talked to the 
psychiatrist. It was mostly Mrs. Brown who talked, so it was now 
Peter who was intrigued about the conversation. But then his mother 
hung up, smiled, and said: "It's OK, she really seems to need you!" 
Even more puzzled, Peter set off on his bike.

When Peter arrived at the doctor's office, she was still busy with 
that patient. The secretary made him wait. Peter looked at his 
bike. It was funny to park a bike in a shrink's waiting room, in 
the ninth story of a downtown building! He had had some trouble 
coaxing the bike into the elevator... They should build bigger 
elevators into buildings that housed a shrink's office! For those 
crazy guys who came on mountain bikes!  After a while a man left 
the doctor's office, and soon Dr. Brown appeared. "Hi, Peter, come 
in please! Thanks for coming so quickly!"

Once inside, she got down to business. "Peter, I really need your 
help. But it's voluntary. You don't have to help me, or answer any 
questions, if you don't want to." Peter looked into her face. He 
didn't know what to expect. "Peter, do you know Bertrand Legrand?"  
Flash! Now Peter understood what it was all about! "Sure, he has 
been my best friend for many years... and he still is!"  "I almost 
guessed it", said the doctor. "So you know about his condition too, 
don't you?"  Peter looked down. "Of course I know, Mrs. Brown. We 
have no secrets before each other." The lady smiled. "It's great to 
have trustworthy friends, isn't it?"  Peter answered in a low 
voice: "I'm glad you understand it." There was a pause.

The doctor restarted the talk. "Did you help him?"  Peter didn't 
know what to answer. After a while he asked: "Can I skip that 
one?"  The doctor smiled: "Of course you can skip it. I expected 
it."  This lady could look into his mind! Peter said in an even 
lower voice: "I would always help him. In every situation. And I 
always did."

"Peter, did you in any way pull Bertrand into this decision? I 
mean, would he have done it without your help?"  Peter sat silent 
again, feeling hot and cold at the same time. "Mrs. Brown, you told 
me you needed my help, but you didn't tell me you wanted to play 
roman inquisition!" The doctor laughed heartily. "Dear Peter, I 
really need your help! Again, you don't need to answer every 
question. The matter is that I need to understand what powerful 
forces drive boys like you and Bertrand into cutting off parts of 
themselves, risking their lifes, facing social trouble, and 
accepting that pain!"  

Peter started a long speech, explaining again what a boy singer 
feels when he thinks about puberty, how he felt about the future, 
girls, singing, and so on. The doctor listened quietly. When he had 
finished, she replied: "All of what you tell me is so very normal. 
Prepubescent boys usually hate girls! And it's so normal too to be 
resilient of any change, and of course puberty brings along large 
changes! But still it is almost unheard of that any boy does what 
you two have done. Singing must be the deciding factor in your 
cases."  "Of course it is", Peter said. This woman understood so 
many things, so well, but this seemed to be beyond her 
grasp. "Look, Mrs.Brown, we like to sing. Really. Singing makes 
most of our lifes. And to sing, you need a voice. A good one. I 
have a good treble voice, I won't be overly modest about it. And 
Bertrand has a good one too. If we had not done what we did, by now 
we would not be able to sing anymore. But we did it, and we will 
continue singing for many years. Everything else is less important 
to us. Is this so hard to understand?" Again there was a long pause.

"It must be that way. Your friend told me the same thing. And he 
seemed to be very normal and reasonable too, except for this. Just 
like you. But there is a thing that puzzles me: Just like you, 
Bertrand told me he did it himself. Is there really no one behind 
this? No teacher, impresario, or whoever, who is castrating little 
boys for his own profit?"  Peter laughed. "You must have watched 
the movie about Farinelli! Dear Mrs.Brown, really, I swear, there 
is no such person! I decided for myself, Bertrand did for him, and 
that's it. Perhaps he did it more easily, knowing that I had done 
it before and came out well. But that's all. Each of us decided it 
freely."  "But you helped him get it done?"  Peter was fed up 
now. "Yes, I did! If I hadn't helped him, he would have killed 
himself while trying! I couldn't let my friend alone in such a 
moment!"  Now it was out. Peter thought that was it, but he was 
wrong. "And he helped you before?" "No, I did it alone." "Peter, 
your friend didn't tell me that you helped him. I can understand 
you don't want to give him away. But believe me, I don't want to do 
anything against you, I just want to understand it all!" 

Peter became harsh. "You will probably never understand it. You are 
no singer." The lady swallowed. "No, I'm not. I'm just a 
psychiatrist with an interest in understanding uncommon behaviour. 
Be it that of a freak or a genius." She paused, then continued. "Is 
there anyone else in your club?"   Peter replied: "Not for now, but 
membership is open."  That was an idea, by the way! Forming a club! 
He smiled into himself. "Peter, you have to promise me 
something." "And that is?" "Never talk any other boy into 
castrating himself. It is not good for them, and you could get very 
severe trouble if anyone gives you away to parents, police, 
teachers, or anyone else." Peter answered firmly: "I have never 
done that, and I will never do it. But I will not talk anyone OUT 
of it, either. Each one must decide this for himself."

The doctor took another pause before she answered solemnly: "Peter, 
I'm ever more impressed with you. You helped me a lot today, even 
if you don't believe it. Thank you a lot. And my previous offer is 
still valid: If you ever need some help, don't hesitate to come!"

With that, their interview ended.

-----oooo-----

The choir rehearsals were somewhat boring. It was this way every 
year: When the new members joined the choir, Mr. Holtmann spent a 
lot of time teaching them breathing techniques, fast music reading, 
sight-singing and such things, and most of the rest of the time got 
devoted to intonation exercises. There was little actual choir 
singing, and it only involved simpler songs well-known to the 
choir. Today the best of all was a Negro Spiritual, for which Peter 
sang the lead. Oh well, these first choir rehearsals in each school 
year were a necessary evil to get the newbies in line with the rest 
of the choir. Soon the fun would start. As soon as there was a firm 
date for some public performance...

Peter shortened the long time by observing his fellows. Jimmy 
looked bored too. He was already too much of a professional singer 
not to get bored by this. Thomas, Johnny and Brian were taking this 
as one more duty, not overly eagerly but without complaint. Their 
voices were improving every month! It couldn't be long before they 
could sing first class solos too. In the alto row he spotted the 
three guys that had been selected for solos months ago. Among them, 
Marc with his deep, clean and in some way compelling voice. They 
looked funny, those three tall and thin lads. They were the tallest 
in their class. Definitely the body constitution must have a lot to 
do with the voice type. The trebles were generally not as tall, and 
some of them were rather broadly built. Johnny specially, he was 
almost too broad, not to say a bit fat, without any signs of growth 
spurt yet... and that guy must now be twelve years old too, or 
close to it! Definitely there were differences... Then his eye 
strayed over the sixth-graders, who were enjoying that now they 
were seniors too, and then to the about twenty fifth-graders. They 
were taking it very seriously, doing their best with their thin 
small-kid voices...

"Peter, are you on strike?" He jumped up. The teacher was expecting 
him to sing the lead for the Negro Spiritual again, and he didn't 
notice! "No strike, Mr. Holtmann, I'm ever ready like a boy scout, 
you know! Just wake me up!" The teacher laughed. "I know this is 
terribly boring for you, but it's very necessary. Now let's go." He 
gave the entry notes, and Peter sang his part while he wondered how 
differently the old man was treating him nowadays. More like a 
colleague than like a schoolboy.

-----ooooo-----


There was still a lot of summer remaining. It was just too bad that 
school left so little time to enjoy it! But as often as they could, 
Peter and Bertrand set out on their bikes. They traveled farther 
and farther, and little remained to be discovered within the range 
of a five-hour bike tour. They biked through forest, up the hills, 
ventured into supposedly dangerous neighborhoods without finding 
anything obviously dangerous there, but very often they just went 
out to their lakeside place where they had enjoyed so many good 
afternoons. So it was today too. They arrived at the discrete place 
in the forest, got their clothes off and onto the grassy ground, 
then climbed that tree limb that overhung the water. There they sat 
for a while, facing each other, chatting about everything and 
nothing, letting one leg hang down each side of the limb. They had 
not been able to do this as comfortably before they got castrated, 
but now it just seemed so natural to sit that way. Their legs had 
become longer, now they didn't need to hold balance at all, the 
legs were enough to balance their slim bodies. Peter raised his 
arms. At some point his center of gravity shifted high enough to 
make him loose stability. He lowered them quickly, and sat stably 
again. It was fun to feel physics at work... While Bertrand copied 
the idea, Peter looked at his friend's groin. That small penis 
lying on the tree branch, like that of a much smaller boy, and 
without anything behind... Somehow it looked attractive. Like it 
should be. And his friend's legs, straight and smooth, deeply 
tanned from all their outdoor activity. He looked at his own body. 
Not much different, really, just slightly taller and bonier. He 
could play guitar on his ribs. Should he eat more? But why? He felt 
great that way... 

SPLASH!!!  Peter was in the water. Unvoluntarily. When he surfaced, 
he heard Bertrand laughing up in the tree. Why did he have this 
habit of getting lost in his thoughts??? It had cost him so many 
jokes, stumbles, splashes... When he got forlorn in his thinking, 
everyone around noticed and took advantage of it. This time 
Bertrand had just pushed him over. Peter saved the embarassing 
situation by splashing water up over Bertrand, until the friend 
jumped into the water too, still laughing. They swam far out. It 
was so great to swim into the lake. Peter didn't even care if he 
could make it back to the shore. Somehow it would work out. Like 
everything did. He swam, and swam, Bertrand close to him. They 
didn't talk while swimming out. Until Bertrand stopped, put himself 
vertical in the water, and said: "Now either we go back or we swim 
across the lake." "Let's cross it... can you?"  "Sure, and the 
Magellan strait too! Right after it!" Bertrand laughed, while he 
started swimming back. They were quite far from the shore. Peter 
laughed too. "The Magellan strait must be a little bit colder, I 
think. Have you ever thought on living down there, at the tip of 
South America, where the world ends?" "Sure, but I don't like to 
walk inverted, feet above my head! And now it's cold winter there!" 
They joked on while slowly swimming back to shore.

Suddenly Bertrand said: "Look there! There is someone among our 
belongings!" Indeed, Peter could see a small body there. It looked 
like someone sitting at the shore, but they were too far away to 
see it clearly. "Let's hurry!" said Peter, and on they went, in 
stable and fast crowl. The tiredness was forgotten. When they were 
much closer, Bertrand showed he had the better eyes by 
stating: "Seems to be Marc. There is another bike too!" After a 
while Peter could confirm this. "Now he will know. Or do you want 
to stay in the water?" Bertrand was almost breathless from the fast 
swimming. "Are you so shy, Peter? EVERYONE will know, sooner or 
later, but probably sooner!" Now again someone had told him he was 
too shy! Peter didn't answer, swam on, reached the shore, and 
walked out of the water, Bertrand closely after him. The two walked 
straight up to Marc, openly, and lay down besides him. Peter asked, 
puzzled but also a bit angry: "How did you find our private beach, 
Marc?" The younger boy explained: "I was riding my bike, when I saw 
you rushing down my street. I followed. I saw you meet Bertrand and 
followed you two at a safe distance. It wasn't hard, you never 
looked back!" "So you were here all the time since we arrived?" 
asked Peter. "Sure, I hid behind that shrub while you took your 
clothes off, climbed the tree, and sat there for half an hour like 
my sister with her boyfriend in the park!" 

Bertrand stood up. "This deserves punishment!" he said, and grabbed 
Marc's hands from behind, making him fall back. Peter grabbed the 
boy's feet, stood up too, they lifted Marc and carried him to the 
waterline. The boy wriggled, shouted, used all the most powerful 
words he knew, and finally begged for mercy. To no avail. Laughing, 
Peter and Bertrand carried Marc into the water. Bertrand 
explained: "This beach is for people who love to swim!" and then, 
at the call of three, Marc was tossed high into the water, clothes 
and all. Laughing, the two went back to the beach and lay down, 
while Marc climbed out of the water, the soaked clothes sticking to 
his body. "Abusers," he said, "you are older than me. And two 
against one." Peter replied: "It's NOT because we are older. It's 
because you stalked us. We don't like such attitude." Bertrand 
added: "Everyone who is new here is baptized. You are now welcome 
to come back whenever you want. But do it openly, not hiding! And 
now get your wet clothes off, or you will catch a cold!" Indeed 
Marc was shivering. After all, he had been sitting motionless for 
much more than an hour, and then this...

"Will no one see us here?" he asked. Bertrand laughed: "You are the 
first one to ever follow us to this place. And we bathe naked here 
since we were that small." He showed the size of a six-year-old, 
which was quite exaggerated in this case. Marc stood up, went 
behind a tree, and undressed there. Peter grinned, Bertrand too. 
This boy was very shy! Must come from a catholic home, at least! 

Marc extended his clothes over some bushes, then walked close-
legged back to the shore and lay down on his belly. After a while, 
Bertrand stated: "Feels much better, doesn't it?" Marc slowly 
nodded. "At least the sun is nice and warm." After a while, he 
added: "If my parents catch wind of this, they will lock me up! I 
can't leave this place until my clothes are dry!" Peter 
laughed: "Your parents should see you like you are now, sticking 
your nude ass into the sky for everyone to see!" He had hit the 
spot, Marc turned purple. After a while he relaxed again. "I will 
join you more often here, if you promise not to baptize me again." 
Bertrand replied: "As long as you come here openly, and join us in 
skinny dipping, your clothes will stay dry and clean! It's a 
promise! Can you swim well?" "I hope so", answered Marc.

After a while, Peter felt his belly freezing from damp grass. He 
wanted to turn over, but that meant exposing himself fully to the 
view of Marc. Had that boy noticed anything? Peter turned to his 
side, the back towards Marc. After a while, Marc said simply: "Just 
feel at home, Peter, turn over. I know you are a castrato." Peter 
froze. So fast had the word been spread! Or had he noticed while he 
came out of the water? But he had used the italian word so 
naturally! And this guy could read his mind too, just like 
Bertrand! Or was he being too obvious?  But Marc spoke again: "By 
the way, Bertrand, I know you too are one. I knew it for a long 
time. Since the Messiah concerts. It's just too obvious!"

Peter turned onto his back, and so did Bertrand. Peter asked, still 
in awe: "Do you have any idea who else knows it?"  Marc 
laughed. "Everyone! At least in the choir! And all of your 
classmates, of course. They spread the word. They also told the 
story of you two trying to conceal it in the locker room!" Peter 
looked at Bertrand, Bertrand looked at him. Seldom had he felt 
sillier than now. There they had been, acting like showmen to hide 
their condition, while everyone knew it and acted as if they hadn't 
noticed! After a while, Peter laughed. "So, no more secrets then. 
Among the teachers, do you know who knows?" Marc looked 
pensative. "I guess Mr. Holtmann knows, at least about you, Peter. 
But probably no one else. We have all been discreet about it." 
Peter was starting to feel warm for Marc.

After a while, Marc said: "My stomach is freezing", and turned 
around, exposing himself to the sun and any errant views. "You are 
learning fast!", commented Bertrand. Peter looked at the boy. He 
was so long and thin, just bones and skin. How could such a voice 
reside in that narrow body! His legs were straight and thin. 
Between them he had everything that should be there, Peter made 
sure. The belly was curved inwards, the hip bones protruding. 
Marc's ribs protruded much more than his own. He joked: "Is that a 
harp or what?" and let his fingers run over the boy's ribs. Marc 
instinctively raised his knees, then he laughed, as he grabbed 
Peter's hand. "We altos don't need much fat", he said. So it was 
true, thought Peter. Even that younger boy knew it.

It was the late afternoon when the three boys pedalled back home. 
They had swum some more, and this time it had been voluntary even 
for Marc. His clothes had dried almost completely, just the thicker 
things were a bit humid still. It wasn't too obvious.

-----ooooo-----

Peter awoke soaked in cold sweat. What had that been?  A dream or 
reality? He grabbed for the light switch, switched on. The sudden 
strong light blinded him. He looked at his watch. Half past three 
in the night. Phew! It must have been a dream. But what a crazy 
dream!!!  Peter switched off the light, and tried to understand 
what he had just been dreaming. 

The school had been a much older building than real. Very tall 
rooms, thick walls, narrow, high windows. And he was living there, 
in the school. No parent's home. Slowly he calmed down, and 
reorganized his memories. The dream must have been set in a very 
old time, as there had been no computers in it, just a library. And 
no electric light. No cars even, just carriages pulled by horses! 
In fact, such old was the dream that there was no running water in 
his dreamed building, just a well outside in the garden, a bathroom 
in the cellar with free-standing wooden bathtubs, and outhouses... 
Peter had read about outhouses. He had never seen one, but now he 
had dreamed this one, and it seemed so real, so detailed!

He remembered more. His friends were there. Robert, Marc, several 
others. Bertrand?  No, he couldn't remember... How could he leave 
his best friend out of his dream! Peter was angry at himself! But 
wait, the names were changed! Marc was Marc, yes, but Robert was 
Roberto... His own name had been Pietro instead of Peter! This 
dream was set in Italy!!! But why was Marc Marc? It should have 
been Marco in Italy! Dreams never seem perfect... Now he remembered 
his best friend in the dream: Giovanni! May Giovanni be Bertrand? 
Mr. Holtmann had been there, but with a very different name. The 
school doctor too. And he had demanded seing him naked, just like 
real. And... YES! The doctor had castrated him! It had not been his 
own decision in the dream, but he had willingly accepted it! It 
dawned to Peter that he had been dreaming a story of the old golden 
era of the castrati, set in baroque Italy, and centered around 
himself and his friends! How crazy! 

Yes, that school had been a famous Conservatorio. His live had been 
singing, there in the dream. Of course. Just like in real life. But 
something very bad had happened to Giovanni/Bertrand. Was it 
Bertrand, really? Hopefully not! And it had not been the only bad 
thing! Peter tried to dig out more details, but it's so hard to 
remember a dream in full. But one thing was clear: This dream had 
been very real, incredibly full of detail, and somehow it had 
touched him deeply. Definitely it was something to remember.

He slept dreamlessly the rest of the night, but next day at school 
he commented the case eagerly to Bertrand, asking him if he 
believed in reincarnation, in some way or another. The friend 
listened calmly, then just said: "Should I help you find the 
address of Mrs.Brown?"

Bertrand's opinion on the matter was clear enough!

-----ooooo-----

The school continued its routine. Peter took it lightly. He had 
always got good grades without much effort, and somehow now it was 
even easier than before. Most of his classmates seemed troubled by 
burning philosophical questions. To be or not to be!  Peter laughed 
at that. THEY really had no reason for it! If anyone had a reason 
to be meditative, it was Bertrand and him! But the two were 
cheerful, open and direct, and became the best students in the 
class, well liked by everyone. 

They had sports class that day too. While they got into their 
sports habit, Peter couldn't help to think: 'These bastards, they 
know it all and didn't tell us!' But it was nice of them to keep 
the secret, at least before the teachers. Now Peter noticed how 
some of them looked at him. He would teach them a lesson! But after 
the class, not now...

The sports teacher, Peter didn't even want to THINK his name, made 
them suffer again. How could someone that brutish be called a 
teacher! Peter preferred switching his mind off as much as 
possible, and just mechanically do the least amount of work that 
would keep him out of greater trouble. So did almost all of the 
other boys, except for a few who were specially gifted in terms of 
muscles (but not in brains!), and searched the teacher's favors by 
doing even more than the guy asked for. Well, everyone in his own 
way, thought Peter, and continued his minimum-effort attitude, 
which was hard enough.

When the class was over, and the boys were back in the locker room, 
Peter undressed and went into the shower that was facing the 
entrance to the shower area. Noting who looked after him, he 
stepped in, turned around, and declared loudly: "This is now the 
castrati shower, and if you want to look, do it openly! We know 
that you know, and you should know that we know that you all know!" 
He found himself funny, but not for very long. Twenty-five pairs of 
eyes fixed on himself, yaws dropping open, faces expressing 
disbelief. Then Joel stepped close by, pulled him out of the shower 
stall, and the classmates formed a circle around him. They stared 
at him. Some looked away. Others bent down to have a better look. 
Finally Joel asked in low voice "was this an accident, or..." He 
didn't finish the question. Larry dropped in: "I would bet that 
this fucking pervert of Holtmann is castrating his choirboys!" 

It was immediately clear to Peter that he had messed up royally. 
Now he had to fix it somehow. Above all, he had to protect Mr. 
Holtmann, who had nothing to do with this! Softly he said: "Did you 
really not know that I'm a castrato? No one knew?"  Robert raised 
his bass voice: "I noticed months ago that you and Bertrand were 
playing a hiding game. And when you stopped it, I saw what had 
happened." As easy as that. And the next thing was that twenty-five 
pairs of eyes turned towards Bertrand, who was sitting lonely on 
the bench in a corner of the room. Silently he stood up. Spread his 
legs slightly, lifted up his penis by the tip. They stared at him 
now. Again some of them looked away. Bertrand said: "We thought you 
all knew it by now. Peter probably scared you. Poor guys!" Then he 
laughed. "At least now you DO know! And, gentlemen, your discretion 
about this matter is highly valued. There are innocent minds to 
protect." Some of the boys laughed now. But Joel again turned to 
Peter: "You haven't answered my question. If you tell us who did 
this, we will assemble a gang and make that person pay dearly for 
it!" He raised his voice. "Everyone agrees?" Most of the boys 
loudly said so. But Peter explained: "For heaven's sake, let Mr. 
Holtmann alone. He is totally unguilty. If you want to beat the 
shit out of that bad guy who did this..." he paused "...beat ME. I 
did it myself. Freely and souvereignly."

It took some time to explain the full story. Peter and Bertrand 
were not yet ready with it, when the teacher broke in and raised 
hell like he had never done before, when he noticed that his pupils 
had spent ten minutes in the locker room without even starting to 
shower. "I will teach you to get into pace, lazy ladies, can't I 
leave you even a minute without you happily sleeping away", and so 
on. It was just good that the man was too enraged to look around. 
He didn't see anything special, regardless of the fact that the two 
naked castrati were standing there in the front line.

While they were going back to the classroom, Peter approached 
Robert. "Did you tell that guy Marc what you know about us?" 
Peter's question was direct. Robert answered straight away: "Yes, I 
did." Then he went on: "I have spent a lot of time with Marc. After 
all, he is my follower as alto soloist, and I had to pass on a lot 
of tradition to him..." He smiled. "He always asks a lot of 
questions, and among them was why my voice had changed so early, 
and your's didn't at all. The issue was unavoidable."  Peter 
understood the reasons. "But did you tell him that all our 
classmates knew it?"  Now Robert laughed. "No, Peter, if he told 
you that, it was his own addition! Marc is much younger than we 
are, and he loves to put some phantasy into everything. That's in 
part the reason why he is such a good singer!"
 
-----ooooo-----

Peter and Bertrand went out to the lake in the afternoon. The 
remaining summer days had to be duly used. When they arrived there, 
they found Marc stretched on his back in the grass, acting like if 
he was alone in the world. Peter smiled. That guy really had been 
fast in taking up beach nudism! The boy barely winked an eye and 
lazily greeted when he noticed the arrival of the long-time masters 
of the place. While they undressed, Marc said: "You have quite a 
good heater up there in the sky! I could stay here for the entire 
day!" Peter grinned and warned: "And then you stay all the night, 
and the next three, smearing some stuff on your sunburns! Haven't 
you been in the sun at all during the whole summer? You are white 
like a bedsheet!" Bertrand added: "I would say Marc is rather red 
already. You will notice it tonight, Marc!" But the boy just 
laughed. "I always turn red in the sun, and two hours later I'm 
white again. I never really tan much, but neither do I get bad 
sunburns. Just the usual slight peeling. But it's true too, I 
haven't had much chance to go to the beach this summer."  It was 
strange, Peter thought. "Why didn't you go? You don't like it?" "My 
parents never go, THEY don't like it. They consider it a waste of 
time... and they won't let me go alone. But now I'm twelve, and I 
have decided to take over some control!" Peter noted this. That guy 
was twelve already! He thought Marc was younger, but then, sure, 
that size was more appropriate for twelve than for eleven years of 
age... "When was your birthday?"  Marc smiled. "It wasn't. It is! 
Today!" 

That was a surprise!  Peter and Bertrand sang the "happy birthday", 
and Marc, not modest at all, joined them, singing "happy birthday 
to me". Then Bertrand winked at Peter, Peter understood, but before 
they could grab Marc and toss him into the water, the boy jumped up 
and ran away. "You promised no more baptisms!" He shouted. "Follow 
me!" He climbed the tree, stepped on the branch that overhung the 
water, extended his arms and walked out, holding balance like a 
circus artist. As far out as he could get, he turned around and 
made inviting signs. "Come on, follow me!" He walked some steps 
back towards the trunk, faced the lake again, ran to the bend of 
the branch and leaped off, sending a shock through the entire tree, 
flying like superman in a wide arc and entering the water almost 
without splashing. Bertrand said baffled: "It seems that singing 
isn't the only thing he can do!" Peter looked towards the lake, 
where Marc was just emerging twenty meters farther out. "And we 
fools asked him if he could swim..."

The two tried to imitate Marc's jump, but Bertrand splashed oddly 
into the lake, and Peter didn't even finish the run before he lost 
balance and fell into the water, still trying to run. They swam 
after Marc, and then the three went together far into the lake. 
Marc liked to swim fast, but soon he was tiring and slowed down. It 
was then when Peter asked him: "Marc, are you sure that everyone in 
the choir, and all our classmates too, know what happened to 
Bertrand and me?"  Marc turned on his back, as it was less effort 
to swim that way, and replied, between deep breaths: "I didn't talk 
to everyone, but at least Robert knows, for sure. Probably all the 
others know it too." "Probably?" Peter was almost angry. "So when 
you told us that everyone knew, it was just a probability, not a 
fact?" No answer. Peter swam close to Marc and pulled his arm. The 
boy got his head out of the water and asked: "Did you say 
something?"  "Oh yes, now keep your ears out of the lake and use 
them!" and he repeated his question. Marc tried to play the 
scientist: "Well, technically speaking I could not be one-hundred 
percent sure of it, but it was so obvious that I just approximated 
that ninety-nine percent probability to one-hundred!" Peter cupped 
both hands and threw a lot of water into Marc's face. "You damn 
liar! You made me set up a show that was totally out of place! Know 
what, Robert was the ONLY ONE who knew about it! But now they all 
know! I should drown you!" And he sent another wave into Marc's 
face. As the culprit coughed out the water he had gotten in his 
lungs, and swallowed the rest, Peter was again at peace. But 
Bertrand anyway came between the two. "Now don't kill him, we still 
need alto singers. But really, Marc, you put us in some trouble. 
Try to keep facts from phantasies in the future, at least before 
us." Still coughing, Marc started the return to the shore. The 
other two followed.

-----ooooo-----

The three became good friends. Marc supressed his tendency to 
embellish the facts by adding phantasies, while the other two 
forgave him that one-time misbehaviour. He teached them how to make 
that wide jump from the tree's branch, confessing that he had 
practiced it while the others weren't around. They talked about 
many things, and not little of it was music. Hefty discussions 
about the proper way to tackle some scores developed, reflecting 
the differences between the approach of altos and sopranos. All 
three were happy to throw in practical singing examples. It was a 
productive friendship, the results of which showed up even during 
the choir rehearsals. Their solo singing had a takealong effect on 
the choir, which sang better than ever. Mr. Holtmann noticed it and 
announced great news: The larger size of the choir during this year 
would be used to perform the great Sacred Choral Music of 1648, by 
Heinrich Schütz! A large work set for seven-part choir, favoriti, 
soloists, orchestra and organ, in the most refined style of that 
great composer, based on venetian renaissance tradition! He didn't 
need to announce the soloists, this issue was clear enough. The 
teacher distributed the scores, thick packages of sheet music. It 
looked impressive. Then he said simply: "These are the first ten 
motets, I will give you the other nineteen soon! All at once may be 
a bit heavy to carry!" Peter looked through it, started to sing it 
into his head. This was a masterpiece! Floating, suspended, 
swimming, threading music! Even the look of the score was a sight 
to behold! He tried to imagine how that weaving between the 
favoriti and the choir must sound, but it was just to much to 
understand quickly. They started working on it at once, and after 
two hours they were exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and 
yet had learnt just the first two-minute-long choral motet... But 
it was so beautiful! The young fifth-graders eyes were all shining, 
they hadn't expect to hear, much less to sing, such music, just 
months from entering the choir!

As a refreshment, the teacher made them sing some of their well-
known and thus easy songs, Negro Spirituals and Ars Nova mostly, 
before sending them home, tired but undescribably happy.
 
Peter took hours to spool down. His father didn't know the work. 
But seeing the enthusiasm displayed by his child, he took his 
credit card, they fired up the computer, searched the online music 
catalogs and ordered a two-CD pack with the complete recording, 
performed by the Hannover boy's choir, conducted by Heinz Hennig. 
The treble soloist was none less than Sebastian Hennig, the 
conductor's son, one of the best soloists of the last decades! This 
should be the very best recording available, and a good way to 
learn how this work should sound!

Peter went to bed, but took a long while to fall asleep. He just 
kept wondering how so many people could loose their time listening 
to crappy rock or pop noises, when there was so much gorgeous real 
music in this world!
 
-----ooooo-----

It was one still warm afternoon at the lake, the three friends 
enjoying the sun on their bodies and dozing into the sky, when Marc 
asked: "Would you be willing to tell me your full story? I just 
know the outcome and some dates, but not the reasons behind it." 
Could this boy be so innocent, thought Peter, but he saw the fun in 
it: "I guess you have learned in history class that dates and 
outcomes are the only thing worth remembering, but how it came to 
it has been long forgotten!" Marc said: "This is no history class, 
this is reality! Here and now! Tell me!" and he boxed into Peter's 
ribs. "No! You too have this tick!!!" shouted Peter and grabbed 
Marc's fist. Bertrand laughed loud. "Marc, you are infringing my 
copyrights! That hit into Peter's ribs is my trademark!" They 
laughed. "Really? Just like this?" and he boxed Peter again, just 
after getting his hand free again. Peter played the madman, 
shadowboxing at Marc, who couldn't stop laughing. Bertrand 
explained how he had used to hit just that very spot on Peter's 
side. Marc got serious again, stood up, moved around and said: "I 
have a solution for this problem. I will lay claim to his other 
side." And punched Peter's left ribs. Peter made a Jesus-Christ-on-
the-cross face, but couldn't help to laugh too.

After a while Marc repeated his request. Peter remembered what 
Mrs.Brown had asked him. He said: "That's such a long time ago, I 
have forgotten it. And you, Bertrand?" "Me too", the other castrato 
said, "so many weeks..." and he lazily closed his eyes, facing the 
sun.

But Marc was too stubborn to give up. "Hey, you two, I really need 
to know! Come on, tell me!"  Peter sighed. "You are like the red 
press, always after extreme and violent things. What's so funny 
about it?" But Marc's face really did not look funny now. "I hoped 
you would help me with it. At least give me some hints, perhaps 
some instructions, some good ideas."

Peter was speechless. Again! Another boy wanted to follow him! He 
had a vision of all the trouble raising again: The tremendous 
psychological load, the dirty work, the worries, the questioning by 
the psychiatrist who blamed him, perhaps even prosecution. How much 
could this issue be stretched? Would they finally all land in jail, 
in the funnyhouse, or simply in the street? Peter had been 
astonished when Bertrand suddenly was so firmly convinced that he 
had to follow him, but now the whole story started anew! 

Bertrand interrupted the tense silence: "Peter, I think we should 
tell him." Peter wasn't that convinced, but he gave in: "Ok, Ok, 
tell him how two silly little boys converted themselves into 
freaks, perhaps it will keep him from doing the same thing!"  Marc 
looked baffled, but Bertrand destroyed the effect, laughing like 
sick. When he recovered, he explained to Marc that Peter's real 
feelings were somewhat different. Marc looked quite confused. 
Finally Peter reluctantly accepted his duty and let Marc know that 
in fact he was quite happy as a castrato, and intended to make the 
best of his life as such. Marc was back on trail, and 
demanded: "But now tell me how you did it! The 'IF' is already 
decided, the 'HOW' is what I want to know!"  Peter was still 
surprised by the sudden revelation. "So you have been joining us 
two just to get information on castration?"  Marc searched for the 
proper words... "Well, it's not the only reason. I wanted to be 
your friend for some time already. But it's true, when I followed 
you to this place it was not for the pure sake of tourism."
 
Bertrand proposed to tell his story first. Peter was glad about it, 
as it gave him some more time to think how he should behave in this 
situation. After all, he really knew Marc only for a few weeks. It 
was much different than it had been with his long time friend. 
Bertrand sat up in the grass and started his story: "I searched 
long for the quickest way to do it. You know, the quicker, the 
better. It hurts less. So I remembered the traditions of my old 
french ancestors, whom you know were very humane, and knew how to 
behead kings and intellectuals in a quick and clean way. I found my 
grandfather's old rusty guillotine..." He couldn't finish, because 
Peter had burst into uncontrollable laughter and Bertrand couldn't 
help to join him. Marc looked angry. He said: "Peter, you are more 
serious than this clown. Tell me how you did it."

Peter put on a serious face and started: "Yes, my dear friend 
Bertrand likes to boast with his french descent. But he is right in 
one point. It's good to do it quickly. And a friendly environment 
helps a lot to get over the pain. Cooling helps too. So I took a 
short rope, and made a small lasso from it. I placed it around 
there, you know where. Then I climbed that tree, and fixed the 
other end of the rope to the branch. Then I jumped off. Quick, 
guaranteed, and I came out of the water washed and ready. OUCH!" 
Marc had buried his bony fist between Peter's ribs... But all three 
laughed now.

Marc took up the initiative again. "Now you two have told me your 
phantasies. But you asked me not to mix phantasy with truth, so, 
could I please ask you to tell the truth now?" Bertrand 
grinned. "Peter, should we?" "Why not", answered Peter, "even if in 
a cinema this would be for adults only." So, Bertrand 
started: "When I decided I wanted to become a castrato, I looked 
long for the safest, cleanest, quickest way." "NOT AGAIN!" 
interrupted Marc. But Bertrand laughed: "No, this is the truth! I 
found a doctor, who tied me to my very own bed, cut two holes into 
my bag, pulled out those things, scraped through everything and 
glued my skin back together with cyanoacrilate! Ouch! Ouch! Peter, 
help me!" Laughing, Peter saved his friend by holding back Marc, 
who was punching Bertrand like mad! 

"Let the fists speak, for the brain no longer has words!" said 
Peter. "Marc, this time Bertrand was telling the truth! At least 
very closely!" Bertrand was caressing his mistreated chest. "You 
are quite a boxer, Marc! But really, it was the truth, pure and 
simple! If you don't believe me, it's your problem! But see." And 
he separated his legs, leaned back, and let Marc see the scars from 
close. Marc looked with scientific interest. "Obviously the scars 
are there, but I can't believe that a doctor would do it at your 
home, and tie you to the bed! And glue you up! Doctors use 
stitches!" Bertrand smiled. "All this depends on the kind of 
doctor, Marc. Not all have access to a hospital..." Marc sat silent 
a moment, then he looked up to Peter, a question mark in his face. 
Peter assented quietly. Marc swallowed. "Is that doctor still 
available?" he asked. "He doesn't like to do such work anymore", 
replied Peter. He felt a big knot inside him.

Unmoved, Marc turned back to Bertrand. "How much did it hurt?" he 
asked. "And don't dare tell me that it didn't!"  Bertrand 
laughed. "It did hurt! About as much as the beating you just gave 
me!" And again he had Marc over him, but this time he was on guard 
and pulled him over while holding his fists. "It really hurt a lot, 
Marc. It requires a lot of concentration to keep from yelling. It 
makes you feel like vomiting, together with burning, cutting, 
pulling... it's not nice at all. But it doesn't last for long. A 
few minutes after it's done, the worst pain is over too. Then it 
hurts for a few more days, and a strange sensation persists for 
weeks." His face cleared up. "But as you see, I survived quite 
well, and here I am, happier than before! And my voice is safe!"

The three sat there, looking over the wide water surface. The sun 
was quite low already. Peter spoke up, somewhat hoarse. "Bertrand, 
I always thought on that sunday you were fine! You even told me 
that morning that it didn't hurt anymore!"  Bertrand smiled: "You 
were so nice to me, I didn't want to make you suffer too. And 
really, I felt better that morning. The day before I had been in a 
lot of pain, and the night to sunday I couldn't sleep, out of pain 
and fever. I must have fallen asleep in the very early morning. 
That's why I slept until lunchtime! In fact, I was still in pain 
when we sung the Messiah the thursday after." Peter's mouth was 
dry. "You should have told me", he said, and pressed his friend's 
hand.

"We should return home, or it will get dark." Bertrand didn't want 
to upset his parents by returning late. But Marc was not yet 
satisfied. "Peter, can you straighten out your lasso story before 
the roar of our bicicles' turbo engines drowns your thin treble 
voice out?" What a way this boy had to say simple things! Peter had 
to laugh, but then complied. "I banded myself with a dozen common 
rubber bands. It hurt for two days, was uncomfortable for six 
weeks, and the skin below the rubber was hurting all the time. It 
ripped off after that time and made me loose an underpant, which 
got too bloody to wash. I can't recommend it, even though it 
worked." Marc felt he had the right to investigate, and had a close 
look at Peter's crotch. "Bertrand's indeed looks better", he 
said. "By the way, my uncle used that banding technique on his 
sheep. He had a special tool for that. But he stopped it because it 
gave too many problems. Some sheep stopped eating, and died. You 
know, sheep are not very bright." He smiled. "And how does he do it 
now?" asked Peter. "He bought another tool, a kind of crimper. Just 
one moment applying pressure on each side, and the sheep is done. 
It goes back to eating before an hour is over. It must hurt a lot 
less."   "A Burdizzo", said Peter slowly. Marc nodded. 

They shook loose from their thoughts, and dressed, while the 
setting sun bathed them in the last blood-red light. Then the three 
raced back through the evening, feeling stronger bounds than ever 
before.

-----ooooo-----

The choir rehearsals were no longer boring! Each one started with a 
few minutes of intonation exercises, just enough to warm up and get 
tuned, and then the work on the great Schütz music set in. The old 
teacher had a real knack for Schütz, so much was clear, but he knew 
how to transmit this to his singers, so they felt all other music 
was inferior to this, except perhaps for Bach. Last year they had 
done the recording of the Little Sacred Concertos, but that had 
been a soloist effort, involving just ten or twelve boys. Now this 
was a Schütz for the full choir! Peter had his place as soloist, 
while Bertrand, Jimmy and two others sang the treble favoriti 
parts. Marc had gotten the alto solos, of course, and the trio of 
now seventh-graders in the alto rows sang the alto favoriti. The 
tenor soloists all came from the last grade, and curiously the work 
had no bass solos. But the bass favoriti included Robert! He had 
advanced quickly! He would surely become a real soloist again next 
year, or perhaps even later this year!

Mrs. Kerrington was becoming senile. She often forgot what she had 
to teach, but after all, she just teached drawing, that wasn't so 
difficult... The boys tried to be nice in her class, after all she 
was a nice old lady and didn't do any evil as long as the boys were 
quiet, orderly, and properly buttoned up. Let not a shirt hang out 
over the pants! Be nice, and she would be nice... 

What made Peter think about all those teachers now? About the math 
guy, the tyrann of the sports class, the natural sciences teacher 
who always was joking, the ever correct and stiff English teacher? 
He had no idea, but somehow he concluded that his life was quite OK 
now. His parents had settled into the situation he had brought 
about, school was livable, sometimes almost enjoyable, except of 
course for the sports class under that bastard. He had good 
friends, a good understanding with that most important teachers of 
all, Mr. Holtmann, and yes, he had a brighter future waiting for 
him than almost anyone else! And he knew the roads of his future, 
something few boys his age did!

He awoke from his daydreaming just in time to sing that solo 
against the choir! That was close! But how great this Schütz music 
was! 

He was living a good life.

-----ooooo-----

It still was warm enough to go swimming on some days. Nowadays the 
three friends biked out together, instead of meeting at the lake. 
Often they biked to other places too, when the weather was cooler, 
remaking all those routes Bertrand and Peter knew, but which were 
new to Marc. They almost looked new to the two too, noting how Marc 
discovered the landscape. They nearly felt like parents to this boy 
now, despite the small age difference.

Today they went to the lake again, as the weather was really warm. 
Perhaps one of the last warm days before the winter set in. Not a 
day to loose away from the lake!

They arrived and did the usual routine of undressing, jumping off 
the tree's branch into the lake and swimming far out. Only that now 
Bertrand had learned the trick, and his more proportionate body 
looked even better than Marc's, while describing that arc and 
ending in the water, without raising more than a few drops. Only 
Peter had balance problems. To avoid falling down before reaching 
the end of the branch, he ran very fast, and couldn't make an 
elegant jump. But he was improving too.

They were soaking up the sun as usual, when Marc got up and 
said: "I will show you a toy I brought." He went to his bike, 
untied a small bag he had brought along, and returned with 
it. "Look here", he said, as he lifted out a strange tool. Peter's 
heart stood still a moment when he saw it. He had seen such a thing 
only on the internet. His quiet hope had been that Marc had 
forgotten his fixation. But no. Marc said simply: "This is the 
Burdizzo my uncle uses on his sheep. I was on his ranch last 
weekend, and found it stored away. He won't miss it until next 
spring, so I thought we can give it some work. Something more 
deserving than silly sheep."

Bertrand extended his arm, opening his hand. Marc gave him the 
tool. "Heavy", said Bertrand, having a closer look at the 
thing. "It needs to be strong. They do many hundred sheep with it 
each time, and those guys press quite hard!" Marc seemed to know 
that thing. "Have you ever seen it in use?" asked Bertrand. Marc 
laughed. "Sure, I may not be a farm kid, but I often spend some 
days at my uncle's place. There's a lake too, and a real ramp to 
jump off, not just a tree like here."  Bertrand was still examining 
that tool. "Have you ever used it yourself?"  "No. I just tried. It 
hurts too much. I need help for it."  Peter felt powerless, and he 
saw Bertrand's yaw drop open, then close again to say: "I didn't 
mean on yourself, but on sheep."  "No, I've never used it on sheep. 
Just have seen it in use." 

Bertrand opened the tool. He put his little finger into the 
opening. It didn't fit fully, but he could close the tool down on 
it. He applied very light pressure, and his fingertip turned 
white. "Archimedes would have loved this thing", he said. "Nice 
lever system." He passed it over to Peter, who repeated the test. 
Ouch. Just a little amount of pressure on the handle could crush 
his finger! "Do you really intend to use this on yourself?" he 
asked.  "I already tried, yesterday evening, but somehow I couldn't 
really close it. I tried, tried, but my hands just didn't obey as 
soon as it hurt a little bit!" Marc's big brown eyes looked wetter 
than normal. "Help me!" he begged.

Peter forced himself to be reasonable. "Marc, are you absolutely 
sure? You have just an alto voice, after all. As a castrato you 
would have to compete against hundreds of counter-tenors, and many 
people would not even notice the difference!"  Marc laughed 
loud. "Peter, stop trying to save me! I know what I want! And don't 
think even one moment that those falsettists could compete against 
a real alto! They sing like sheep, those poor types! Disgusting! Or 
do you like them?" He looked into Peter's eyes. "No, except for a 
few, I don't like them. You sound very much better." Peter returned 
the look. Marc gave back: "And those few you do like, I'm convinced 
those are in fact castrati. Natural castrati, probably. Some 
endocrine disorder."

After a while, Bertrand again got the tool. Looking at it, opening 
and closing it, he looked at the slight shape at the mouthpiece. It 
seemed so simple. "Marc, how is such a thing used?" he asked. Marc 
took the tool, lifted up his head, and explained: "You must put the 
cord of one testicle into the tool's mouth. Like this." And he 
massaged his scrotum a little, grasped the cord between two 
fingers, and applied the tool. "You see, now it's just a matter of 
pressing down for thirty seconds, and that's it. The tool holds the 
cord while sealing it off. Bertrand got closer while looking at it. 
He felt for the cord in his younger friend's bag. "That should be 
really easy..." he said. And he grasped the tool, quickly closing 
the handle! At the same time he sat on Marc's legs, and pressed his 
free hand onto the boy's mouth, in a vain attempt to mute the 
terrible yell that escaped. Then Marc breathed heavily, convulsed, 
and closed his eyes. Bertrand slowly counted to thirty, while Peter 
decided to take part by holding Marc's quivering hands safely away. 
This was gross. Almost horrible.

The count was over, Bertrand released the tool. Red marks on Marc's 
skin signalled the place where the tool had bitten. Peter 
approached to feel that spot. But as soon as he touched it, Marc 
jerked again. His eyes still were shut. He was breathing slightly 
now. Worried, Peter felt for the pulse. It was agitated, and 
intense. Bertrand whispered into Marc's ear: "Is it too bad 
still?"  After a while, Marc opened his eyes, wet and 
glassy. "Thank's, Bertrand. You are right, the quicker the better. 
Let's do the other. So I can bring the tool back." He tried a 
smile, but it only grew into a desperate grimasse. "Marc, do you 
really feel like doing the other side right now?" "Yes, because if 
we postpone it, maybe I will never again feel like it! Go on! 
Now!"  And with shaking hands he felt for his other, still intact 
cord, and sandwiched it between two layers of skin. Bertrand 
applied the tool. Marc closed his eyes and pressed his teeth 
together. Peter grabbed Marc's hands again and hold them firmly, 
like trying to comfort the poor guy. Then Bertrand closed the tool 
for the second time, and Marc again started quivering, struggling, 
but without letting out a sound. His skin was sweaty. When 
Bertrand's count had arrived at twenty-two, suddenly Marc quivered 
violently and vomited in a long stream. He then coughed, unable to 
supress the tears, while Bertrand finished his count and removed 
the tool. Just two times thirty seconds of suffering, but how 
intense! They let the boy relax, Peter still holding his hands.

When Marc opened his eyes again, after a long while, the first 
thing he said was: "Poor sheep. Those farm guys say it doesn't hurt 
them!" After a pause: "Can you help me to the water? I feel so 
silly weak..." Peter and Bertrand lifted Marc on his feet. The boy 
still was shaking, and they more carried than helped him into the 
water. There he first put some cold water on his ballbag, then on 
his belly, and then he washed his face, the other two still holding 
him. "Let me sit down", he said. They slowly lowered him into the 
water, which covered him up to the chest. "Ahh, that feels better!" 
he smiled. He slowly lay back, submerged his head, came up again, 
rinsed his mouth. "It hurts like several hells at once. But now 
it's much less than with the tool pressing on."

Marc stayed there, sitting in the shallow water, for a long while. 
Only then did he say: "Now it's much better. Can you help me up?" 
The two silently lifted him up. In small steps, legs wide apart, 
Marc walked out of the water, guided by his friends. He sat down, 
lay back. The two looked at the site of the action. The scrotum had 
shriveled up in the cold water, and the small reddish marks could 
barely be seen. 

"Thanks again, guys", Marc said anew, "you made it quicker than I 
had expected. I thought I would have to beg for weeks or months. 
Really, lots of thanks." He had his hands in his crotch, slightly 
compressing the sore site.

"I'm worried about one thing", said Peter. He had been thinking 
about this problem since the events started. "How will you make it 
back home?"   Marc replied: "On my bike, of course! Or do you want 
to call an UFO to pick me up?"  "Can you ride your bike, NOW?" 
asked Bertrand. "Give me an hour, and we will see. It's getting 
better all the time. I think I can."

Indeed, over the next hour Marc's behavior, face color, and wit 
returned pretty much to normal. Of course it still hurt, but with 
care and spread legs he could make the tour. Anyway, he had no 
option... But before they left him close to his home, he swore that 
he would not try to get on his bike again during several days at 
least.

-----ooooo-----

When Peter had the first chance to talk to Marc privately the next 
day, he asked him the obvious question. "I'm fine!" was Marc's 
answer. "It doesn't really hurt now, there is just an odd feeling 
there. Like if something is missing..." he smiled. "And a strange 
sensation all around, even in my legs! But it doesn't hurt unless I 
press, stretch or hit the place." He was walking slowly around the 
schoolyard. 

"Can you feel your balls at all?" asked Peter. Marc laughed: "With 
my fingers, yes, they are there... But otherwise? No... or yes. I 
feel them all the time, but not really. If I compress them, I fell 
nothing at all. It should be that way, I think..." It was strange, 
Marc had become quite another guy since yesterday. So pensative... 
but well, he had a good reason! Peter smiled. At least he was not 
in major pain.

After the choir rehearsal, where they spent most time on the Schütz 
work, the teacher asked Peter, Bertrand and Marc to stay for a 
moment. This was strange! Peter saw the other two looking at him. 
Had the old man found out their secret, that Peter was no longer 
alone? The question was on their faces too. Or... Peter didn't even 
want to think this: Had Marc already told everyone? 

The veil was soon lifted. "Boys, there is a chance to perform at 
the cathedral very soon. They want a mixed concert, a hommage to 
Bach. Some organ music, then a cantata. The cathedral organist 
cares for the first, but we would have to provide the cantata. I 
already talked to Mr. Furnetti, his players can easily do it. But 
there is no time to make the choir learn long parts, so I picked 
this cantata." He opened a binder with old loose sheets of music. 
He must have used it a lot, Peter thought, judging from the 
condition of that paper... "It has just two simple chorales, while 
the rest is for soloists. Two trebles and an alto. That's why you 
are here. You are the ablest right now, but don't get cocky for 
it..." The teacher smiled. "Peter, you would get the hardest part, 
more than half of this cantata would be yours. Can you learn this 
score and sing it three weeks from now in the cathedral? I think 
so." 
  
Peter's eyes were lit. "May I see it?" Mr. Holtmann gave it to him. 
Peter looked through it. First was a simple, typical Bach chorale, 
then a treble recitativo, which looked easy enough. Then... wow! A 
highly ornamented treble aria, full of jumps over large intervals, 
and going up into his best range! It catched Peter's attention that 
a lot of grace notes were written out. "Mr. Holtmann, does this 
mean I cannot grace it myself?" "So I think, Peter. Bach often 
wrote out all embellishments, to keep untrained singers from 
gracing in the wrong way and destroying the melody. After all,... 
he had just unexperienced little boy singers for the high voices!" 
Peter laughed, and he continued reading the score. This was for 
Marc. A slow, nice alto aria. Then again a treble aria, but not as 
virtuose as the first. It would require careful expression to catch 
the public. Then, a tenor recitativo and aria! "Mr. Holtmann, who 
will sing this piece?"  "It would be Bill. He is our best tenor." 
The three boys sighed. The teacher laughed softly. "I know that guy 
has a difficult character, but he sings well." "We know that too, 
Mr. Holtmann", said Bertrand. "We know it almost too well!" This 
made the old man laugh loud. He then said: "I will keep him under 
control, don't worry. There is no time you and he have to sing 
together, so it should work out."  "Still bad enough", said Peter 
and continued examining the score. But he cheered up quickly. Here 
was the chance to make Bill small in front of the public! This was 
a marvelous treble duo! Together with Bertrand he would blow the 
socks off that guy! "Look, Bertrand!" he said and pulled the friend 
close. Marc also bent over the score, and they looked trough this 
duo and the closing chorale. The teacher smiled warmly, unseen by 
any.
 
-----ooooo-----

Soon Marc was ready to resume biking. He had missed those rides 
with his new friends a lot, and he had told them. So, when he 
announced that he could again bike without mayor discomfort, the 
three found time between all those choir rehearsals and additional 
Bach sessions to continue conquering the wide world. It was getting 
cold, so the lake didn't look very attractive. Instead they went 
into the hills, to a place at a forest stream they had found, or 
they just biked along country roads and marveled at all those 
things you only see when walking or biking, while the cars zoomed 
past them.

They were sitting on a fallen tree, at the end of a narrow forest 
trail that just didn't go on. Who knows why it ended here. Maybe 
because after the tree fell across it, everyone only went just to 
this place, so the other side of the trail closed over the years... 
Peter was enjoying the fresh, scenty forest air, the calmness, the 
silent presence of his friends, hearing the birds sing, when 
Bertrand asked: "Marc, have they disappeared already?" Marc was 
always quick to react, and before Peter understood the question, 
the boy answered: "Not at all. They are still there, just as 
always, only that I can't feel them." Bertrand was worried. "Are 
you sure they are dead? Maybe we didn't do it correctly, cut only 
the nerves, and you are no castrato yet? Just imagine, if your 
voice now breaks anyway!"  But Marc laughed loud. "If they survived 
THAT treatment you gave them, they deserve to live! But really, I 
don't think they did." "Let me see", demanded Bertrand.

Peter looked in silence as the young boy lowered his pants. He had 
not seen him naked since that remarkable day at the beach, two 
weeks ago. Marc's balls looked smaller than he remembered, and the 
sack was somewhat stretched, but that could have come from the 
sweaty biking. However Bertrand seemed to have the same idea: "They 
have shrunken a lot. Can I feel?" "Sure, you can even press them if 
you want, I don't feel a thing down there except for the skin!" 
Marc smiled.

Bertrand carefully felt around, then said: "Seems to be OK. I can't 
feel any remains of those cords!" Now Peter couldn't resist 
anymore. "May I?" he asked. "All yours!" laughed Marc. Peter felt 
at Marc's manly remains. Indeed the balls felt very small and hard, 
and nothing seemed to join them into the abdomen. He grabbed one 
between three fingers and pressed. "Does it hurt?" Marc just 
laughed. "Not at all!"  Peter pressed harder. And harder. Then he 
gave up. "Try a nutcracker", grinned Marc. "Are you convinced 
now?"  Peter didn't answer. While Marc pulled his pants back up, 
Bertrand said: "It will be interesting to see if they ever 
disappear completely." Marc had the answer too: "In the sheep they 
do disappear after several weeks. And I'm not so different from a 
sheep. Don't you agree?" And he produced his loudest sheep call, 
making the other two laugh.

"We should look for a name to refer to our club", said Bertrand, 
pensatively. Peter listened up. "I have been thinking about a club 
too. What do you think about 'Club of the high C' ? "   Marc 
disagreed: "You are a damn egoist, Peter. I have never been able to 
reach the high C! The name should be good for all of us, altos 
included!"  Bertrand laughed. "Peter just loves his high notes. How 
was that G above, Peter? Can you still sing that?"  "Of course", 
answered Peter, but now he changed into his lowest register, lower 
than Marc's normal speaking voice. "Let's delete the 'high'. It 
could be just the 'C Club'. How about that?"  Bertrand liked 
it: "That's a good idea, so everyone chooses the C he is most 
comfortable with... but wait, 'C Club' is great! It can also stand 
for 'Castrati Club'!" They laughed. This was a great idea! Peter 
wanted to shorten it even more: "We should call it just 'CC', 
simple and clear, at least to us."  Marc rolled his eyes, pulled 
his mouth sidewards and asked: "CC stands for Crazy Children, 
right?" Laughter again. "Conspiring Cutters", shouted 
Peter. "Cynical Culprits" added Bertrand. Marc softly 
suggested "Chaste Cripples" too, which was not so nice, even if 
true. But CC it would be.

-----ooooo-----


On the next monday there should have been a choir rehearsal, 
devoted mostly to the Bach chorales. But this was not to be. The 
boys were assembled in the room, when Mr. Holtmann came in, white-
faced. Peter saw it from far. Something was really wrong. The 
chatting stopped, as the well beloved teacher sat at the piano, but 
did not open it as he always used to do right upon entering. He 
said slowly, in trembling voice: "Our rehearsal for today is 
canceled. We will have a talk instead." He pulled the piano stool 
to the middle of the room, and asked the boys to cluster around. 
They all sat down, and the teacher's eyes strayed over his singers. 
Peter knew that this old man was alone in the world, he had no one 
closer than the choir boys, and perhaps a few friends. But he had 
never done this. And the teacher really looked distressed. 

"Does anyone of you know what happened to Jimmy?" he asked. Thomas 
spoke up: "His mother send a note this morning, telling he was 
sick." Peter looked around. Indeed, Jimmy was not there. He hadn't 
noticed before. The teacher spoke again: "Yes, he is very sick 
indeed. He is in the intensive care station at the hospital." 
Shocked faces around. Barely able to find his voice, the old 
teacher added: "The doctors fear for his life. The next 24 hours 
are critical."

Deep silence. Silence to grasp. "What's the matter with him?" asked 
someone. The teacher barely found forces to continue. But he made 
the effort, and explained: "He was found unconscious, in a pool of 
blood, on the kitchen floor. Castrated. The police found no clues 
to anyone who could have done it. They say Jimmy must have 
castrated himself."

Peter would have liked to be just a small mouse in the corner, or 
better, not to be at all. How could Jimmy do it in such a way! But 
his mates were at least as shocked. He saw white faces, wide open 
eyes, expressing everything from shock to disbelief. The teacher 
was weeping in silence. Then, with broken voice, he said: "Let's 
hope he makes it. What he did was terrible enough, but loosing 
him..." He could not finish. Tears overcame him.

Peter was tempted to go afront and try comforting the teacher. But 
in this situation, he just could not! After all, if anyone was 
responsible, it was him! None of the boys dared to say a word, 
until the old man spoke again: "We must discuss some things clearly 
now. It makes no sense to play this hiding game any longer. You 
should all know that your friend Peter, here, did the same thing a 
year ago, just he had more luck and got no complications."  Peter 
blushed like he had never done. He had all the eyes staring at him, 
except for those of the few people who knew. So, that was it. The 
hiding game is over, as the teacher had said. He was no longer a 
choir boy now, he was now oficially a castrato. He could stand it, 
but the revelation had been a bit sudden.

Bertrand stood up from his chair, walked over to Peter, and said 
firmly: "Mr. Holtmann, I did the same. I'm too a castrato. Sorry 
for not telling you earlier, I didn't deem it necessary. But if the 
hiding game is over..." Taking this as a keyword, Marc lifted his 
long bones out of his chair, came over to Peter too, stood at his 
other side, and declared: "I'm a member of the club too, Mr. 
Holtmann. No more hiding games."

The teacher had turned one more shade into the white. "You too, 
Marc?" He asked in disbelief. "I almost guessed it for Bertrand, as 
his voice just didn't seem to want to break... but you? Are you 
sure?"  Marc broke into loud laughter, but quickly supressed it, 
saying: "Sorry, Mr. Holtmann. This day is really not made for 
laughing, with those news about Jimmy. But I am sure that I'm a 
castrato too. Very sure."

The other boys looked from one castrato to the next. Their faces 
expressed fear, awe, respect, curiosity, hope, so many things! 
Peter wished once again he had a small, invisible photo camera... 
These faces!

The teacher asked: "Is anybody else here in that situation?" 
Everyone looked around. Nobody volunteered. The teacher 
continued: "Has anyone been thinking or dreaming about getting 
castrated?" You could have heard a hair falling down. Then, slowly, 
one hand went up. Another one. And another. Seeing this, shy smiles 
developed, and more hands went up. The teacher looked in awe. Even 
Peter, who knew so well how strong such feelings can be among 
choirboys, did not expect that much honesty to show up. Only some 
of the sixth-graders, and many of the fifth-graders, did not lift 
their hands. They probably were just to young to think about it, 
was Peter's thought.

"Let me tell you something", said the teacher. "You are totally 
crazy! You don't have te slightest idea about what you loose, and 
whoever actually gets on doing this, like our three madmen here, 
and poor Jimmy if he survives, will be a freak for life, and will 
always be dependant on the mood of the public to find some 
sustainance! Don't ruin your lifes, boys! Singing high is a nice 
thing, but we need tenors and basses too! Talk this over with your 
parents, get help from a psicologist if necessary, but please 
accept that puberty is a normal thing even for choirboys, and that 
however nice it may be to sing treble or alto, someday it will be 
over, away and gone, and that's it! Enjoy while you can, and then 
accept the changes that come along! Change is everything life is 
about, don't resist change!"

Throughout this appasionate speech, some of the boys had kept their 
hands up. One after another, they lowered them now. But the teacher 
continued. "I hope most of you heros have just been dreaming, and 
would not do such an idiotic act. But to help you decide, here is 
my promise: Anyone who tries to castrate himself from now on, or 
tries to get someone to do it to him, will be thrown out of this 
choir. I hope this will serve as a deterrant. Session is over now. 
Go home, and think about it. Be reasonable. Tomorrow we will 
rehearse again." And in very low voice, he added: "Don't forget to 
pray for Jimmy."

The boys stood up, and clustered around the trio of castrati, 
overwhelming them with questions. After a while, the teacher 
said: "Time to go home, boys! Let these guys alone for now. Peter, 
Bertrand, Marc, please stay." So, was this for an unexpected 
rehearsal of the Bach solos, after all, or what?  Slowly the boys 
left the room, and the three castrati stayed.

"You all told me the truth, I hope" asked the teacher. "Yes", said 
Marc. "Of course", added Peter. Bertrand just nodded. "Do you know 
if any other boy has taken that step of mutilating himself, or is 
in risk of doing it?" While Bertrand shook his head, and Marc 
lifted his shoulders while pulling down his mouth edges, Peter 
spoke: "I don't know if anyone else plans doing it, but I had no 
idea about Jimmy's intentions either. And about 'risk'..." he 
paused and looked the teacher into the eyes. "Everyone. It's just 
so logical, so easy to do! You saw the reaction to your question 
about dreams. I'm quite sure, everyone has had dreams about it!" 
The teacher made a sad face. "Seems we will need group therapy from 
a good psychiatrist." Peter was about to mention Mrs.Brown, but he 
stepped back. The teacher went on: "Where did Jimmy get the idea 
from? I know that many choir boys dream about castration, and a 
brilliant life as a castrato singer. After all I was a choirboy 
myself, many many years ago, and it was no different back then." 
Peter was surprised by this revelation, as the teacher went 
on: "But never in my life had I heard of anyone actually doing it. 
You are the first, Peter. It's obvious that your best friend 
followed you, quite wrongly taking you as a role model. But Marc? 
How did you get into this?" 

Marc looked onto the floor. He almost burned a hole into it. "I saw 
how Robert lost is voice. We talked so much about that. I didn't 
want to suffer the same fate. And... one day Robert told me about 
the solution found by these two guys." He looked up at them, 
gratefully. "I followed them, pestered them, and got... well... 
information from them." Peter was wet in cold sweat.

Slowly the teacher asked: "So these two talked you into 
castration?"  "No!" Marc jumped up. "Actually they tried to talk me 
out of it! They tried hard! But I was stubborn enough to go on. And 
I'm glad I did." He smiled. But just shortly. The teacher slowly 
shook his head, and insisted: "But how was Jimmy brought into this? 
And why did he try it in such a way!? Do you know how he did it? 
According to the police, he must have taken a kitchen knife, placed 
his testicles on the corner of the table, and sliced them off! It's 
unbelievable that he could do this, but there is no other 
explanation. It must have happened several hours before they found 
him, lying under that table, his severed body parts still on top! 
He lost much blood, and has a bad infection." 

Peter asked: "And what does Jimmy himself say? Do you know?" The 
teacher replied: "No one knows! He has not yet regained 
consciousness. Marc! What's the matter with you?!" The boy had 
sunken together, still staring into the floor, and was even whiter 
than he used to be. Bertrand placed his arm around Marc's neck, 
pulling him up. Marc was weeping. "It's my fault!" he said between 
tears. "Months ago, when I still had no idea I would someday become 
a castrato, we toyed around with the idea. I enjoyed a lot telling 
Jimmy castration stories I made up just for the moment! I told him 
that if you cut fast enough, you get it done before it starts 
hurting. I also told him that pressing the legs together stopped 
the bleeding, and many other jokes. This guy must have believed 
me!" He looked into his almost visible hole in the floor. "If Jimmy 
dies, I'm guilty. Thousand million times guilty!"

When the old teacher finally let them go, the three friends walked 
some blocks together before they split up. They agreed that this 
practice had to stop, or indeed they would run out of tenors and 
basses for the choir... And Mr. Holtmann's warning was also there. 
But Peter remembered his previous comfrontations with such 
questions. Deep inside him, he knew that if in the future another 
boy really wanted to keep his voice... he just WOULD help him, 
regardless of the choir, or other consequences! Damn, he could have 
saved Jimmy from that life threat, and castrated him in a safer 
way, if just the boy had asked him!

In the evening, Peter took the phone book and found the number of 
the hospital's information service. He called, and in his most 
business-like voice asked for the condition of Jimmy Jansson. "Are 
you a family member?" asked the lady. "Not really, but a fellow 
choir singer. We are his second family, you know..." he 
replied. "Sorry, I can only give information to his family. I'm 
really sorry, but those are the regulations." Peter did not give up 
that easily. "I'm so worried about him. Couldn't you make an 
exception? Just tell me 'better' or 'worse'?"  "I'm not allowed to 
tell you anything, sorry. Tell me, what's your name, by the 
way?"  "Peter Andrews. I know Jimmy for several years, we have sung 
great music together, please make the exception and tell me! Will 
he survive?" Peter was close to tears now.  "Look, Peter, I 
understand how worried you are. And you aren't alone. During the 
last hours we got more than fourty calls from boys. Probably the 
entire choir called. And they told me you all know the truth. I 
will tell you so much: Jimmy's condition is improving, but he will 
undergo minor surgery tomorrow morning to clean up the infection 
site. He should be back at school in a week to ten days. Don't 
worry too much. He will be fine." Peter took a deep breath. "Thank 
you very much, really!"

He went to bed in slightly brighter mood than he had been during 
the last several hours. He even sung under the shower. A moving, 
hopeful song.

-----ooooo-----

Somehow the mood among the boys was somber during the following 
days, even if Jimmy was recovering, fortunately. Peter tried to get 
permission to visit him at the hospital, but there was no way, even 
if he was now out of the intensive care station and in a normal 
recovery room. 

There was a lot of of rehearsing to be done. The singers were 
ready, but the hired orchestra would only be available for the last 
rehearsal, and then the concert. So the teacher played a piano 
extract during the choir classes, to train the boys for the correct 
entries.

When that last rehearsal came, Peter looked in awe at the 
instruments. This group was a real Collegium Musicum, like those of 
Bach's time, and they had gorgeously beautiful period instruments! 
Peter admired that polished wood, the handcrafted brass 
instruments, those strange wooden traverse flutes with just a few 
levers, the violons... Then the instrumentists warmed up, and Peter 
was charmed by that warm, soft sound, the pure tuning, and 
unaccustomed absence of vibrato. These people didn't need it! It 
became clear to him that he would not have to sing loud, these 
instruments could never overpower him! At the same time, the choir 
would HAVE to sing softly to avoid swamping the delicate 
instruments! Mr. Holtmann had warned them about this fact. The 
instruments were as important as the singing, and a delicate 
balance had to be set up. They started working, and three hours 
later everything was set. Peter was just not satisfied with his own 
singing. Blame the situation with poor Jimmy, he thought. Jimmy 
would not take part in this concert. And he loved baroque music so 
much, the poor guy... How could he do that butchery!

After the rehearsal, he told Bertrand and Marc: "We must hold a CC 
meeting on saturday. At the clubhouse." That was their code name 
for the lakeside place now. But Bill overheard it and grinned 
boldly, saying: "A sissy meeting? Just right for you!" Peter felt 
the rage come up in him. But he controlled himself, turned his back 
to that nasty guy with the undeservedly good tenor voice, and to 
his friends he said, too softly for Bill to hear: "We must see how 
to get Jimmy back on his feet. He will need it."

-----ooooo-----

Evening at the cathedral. Expectance. Lots of people. Peter had 
walked in through the main door, and was handed a program like 
everyone else. He laughed. The lady at the door had no idea he was 
one of the performers... Why should she know, anyway? His choir 
robe was waiting inside... He looked over the leaflet. Johann 
Sebastian Bach, organ music: Several interludes, pieces from the 
Little Organ Book, the unavoidable great Toccata and Fugue in D 
minor, several other works. Performer: The cathedral organist, a 
good musician.  And in the second part, their cantata. Performers: 
He and Bertrand, sopranos. Not trebles!  Marc, alto. No name change 
here... Bill, the bad guy, tenor. The choir and the Collegium 
Musicum. Mr.Holtmann. All right.

He felt weak when he read that paper. It brought up again that 
hated feeling in his guts. He had spent just too much time that day 
sitting on the throne, and had not been able to eat much. But even 
while he hated that silly trouble, he was now so accustomed to it. 
It would be strange to perform in public, in a real big concert, 
without that preamble!

He went straight into the room adjoining the big cathedral ship, 
where they usually got ready for those concerts. Most of the choir 
members were already there, and of the soloists he was the last one 
to arrive. Mr. Holtmann was talking to the organist, the 
instrumentist could be heard warming up through the wall. How 
crazy, there is almost an hour of organ music first! 

Peter's mind was with Jimmy. That boy was missing this. And not 
even guessing how much it affected him. Would Peter be able to 
sing? He just had to! In the honor of Jimmy, he had to make this 
festive music sound great! 

He heard the audience calm down. The organ music was about to 
start. The player had left the room. And then they started, those 
powerful sounds that went through walls and spaces. He listened in 
awe. If he weren't a singer, he would have become an organist. That 
was second best! He made a sign to the teacher, and slipped out of 
the room and into the cathedral. There he found himself a place, 
unseen by most, still in street clothing, no choir robe yet. He 
listened. The world improved. Bach, the great master of the organ, 
equal too in vocal music, resounding through the great old room! He 
felt those slight shudders running down his back, felt that strange 
and so indescribably enjoyable feeling in his forehead... He knew 
that so well! Bertrand had talked about it when he had given his 
friend that massage at the beach, to loosen aching muscles. Peter 
felt it whenever he sensed someone was doing something special for 
him. When his mother caressed him, for example. Or when he was 
treated to things like organ music! These deep bass notes, that 
powerful joint register! He was tuning to Bach. The great master. 
The hour passed like just a few minutes. Peter was ready to sing.

When he returned to the room, the teacher said, relieved: "Thanks 
God you are here! I thought you had run away!" But his smile told 
Peter that the fear had not been that great. He smiled back and 
said: "Me, running away from singing? Don't ever hope for that! You 
will not get rid of me that easily!" Then he got into his choir 
robe, which the teacher had thrown at him, and they got the last 
instructions from the old man.

After the pause was over, and the instrumentists had set up their 
things, the choir entered the cathedral and lined up properly. 
About fifty young boys, and some twenty older ones in the tenor and 
bass rows. Really, much too many for a Bach work with period 
instruments, thought Peter. But the teacher had instructed them 
again to hold back their voices unless he gave them the signs to 
rise them. It was all set. 

Bill entered, followed by Marc, Bertrand and Peter. Poor Marc, he 
would have to endure that bastard at his left side for the full 
duration of the cantata... Then the teacher came in. He greeted 
shortly, the public hold quiet. Indeed, they hadn't applauded to 
the organ music either! At last, traditions are being followed 
again... Peter liked applause, but not in a church... 

Mr. Holtmann started the cantata. The orchestra set in, followed by 
the choir. Softly, as they had been told. It sounded so nice. So 
Bach-like... Those Bach chorales could be recognized after just 
hearing a few chords! Soon the chorale ended. Peter was ready. He 
started his recitativo, his voice sounded clean and fresh despite 
all the trouble of the last days. He drew confidence from it. He 
needed it. He joined the piece into the following aria, let his 
voice fly, then holding back a little. But Mr. Holtmann signed him 
free way, the instruments were perfectly hearable along his 
precise, focused voice. He could hear them well enough while 
singing, so he let loose! He used Bach's original grace notes, they 
were good, he had to admit. The jumps over large intervals, they 
were so easy! Bach knew what he did, the instruments always had to 
play the proper tones a few beats earlier, so he always knew where 
his voice had to land. After all, Bach wrote fugues, whatever he 
was working at! Peter sang, jubilantly. Maybe Jimmy was there, 
after all? He could imagine that if there was any way at all, he 
would have begged to be brought here. And he sang, and sang... The 
aria was long, and he enjoyed it so much! The last, high note 
ended. Peter could hear his own voice reverberate back in the huge 
room, slowly fading away... No, the cathedral windows had not 
shattered. He suddenly remembered that weird dream of ancient times 
in Italy, where he had shattered the windows by singing such a 
note. It must be expensive to sing in that way! Fortunately such 
things happened only in dreams... But his life, his future, his 
present was this, singing, just singing!

Marc's aria started. The follower of Robert. Deserving follower. As 
great an alto voice as Robert had called his own. He sang it 
slowly, so warm. His deep voice going down into the cellar, coming 
back up. Peter never had been able to sing anywhere near those 
notes, but well, that's what altos are for... Marc did it great. 
While so many people had listened with incredulous expression to 
Peter's singing, now they smiled, some had closed their eyes. Peter 
just loved to observe the people attending concerts.

Then it was his turn again. He could outdo Marc... That was a nasty 
thought. He changed the words in his mind. He could improve on 
Marc's singing. And he did. His slow aria was graced carefully, he 
put the accent on each word, each note that needed it, swelling his 
voice, holding back again. Wide open eyes among the audience. He 
sweetened the tone. Let's see if he could make them close their 
eyes! Sure enough, some did... What a power has a good singer in 
his voice! Peter finished his second aria.

Then came nasty Bill with his recitativo and aria. He did it great 
too, Peter had to accept, but a bit too loud. He tended to 
overpower the instruments, specially in his higher notes. Mr. 
Holtmann signed him to moderate down a bit, to no avail. Otherwise 
it was good, but some people showed slightly bored looks or read in 
the program leaflet. Then it was over, and here came the soprano 
duo. Peter winked an eye at Bertrand, the friend winked back, the 
instruments started the long introduction, and then first Peter, 
then Bertrand entered. They sang this fugated piece, catching each 
other, running away from each other, this score was the typical 
playful Bach! Fugues wherever you looked at! Within all that 
counterpoint, every single note formed perfect harmony with 
everything around it! The players did a great job too. Near the 
end, Peter could no longer resist, and threw in some grace notes of 
his own. Bertrand winked an eye again, and added his. Wide smiles 
on many faces in the audience. 'Our time is ripe for a revival of 
the castrato tradition.' How right, Peter felt it. Did many of 
these people know the situation? Some did, surely. Some others must 
be guessing it. Few should believe that these were just normal 
boys. Specially himself. Don't get cocky! So many smiles down 
there...!

The duo was over, the instruments were smoothing the musical path 
for the last chorale. Peter could not hold back now, he forgot his 
soloist status and joined the choir. There were no original Bach-
prescribed grace notes in the choir part. His chance... He added 
them now. He sang, freely, and saw how Bertrand and Marc also fell 
in. Just that dumb Bill was too self-conscious to do the same. He 
stood there like a dead tree trunk, waiting for the world turning 
around him. The last chord came. Peter graced it with the F above 
the high C. Just too bad that the G would have been dissonant here! 
His life. His present, his future. Singing. Forever.
 
-----ooooo----- THE END (at least of part two...) -----ooooo-----