The Choirboy

NONE ENTERED BY AUTHOR

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Foreword: 

This is not a "Hello - whack! - goodbye" type of story. It is long. 
Don't burn your eyes out reading it from the screen. I suggest you 
print it out and enjoy it at leisure.
It took me quite some effort to write this down, not only because 
of the many things that are so hard to let loose, but also because 
my English is quite limited and I had to work with the dictionary. 
Please excuse my errors and horrors in the use of this language.
This is my first contribution to The Archive. If enough interest 
shows up in the story feedback forum, I may perhaps find the time 
and spirits to go on writing. 

                                                    Il Musico

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                          The Choirboy
                          ============
 
           A story of music, friendship, and courage

                       

'Time to get up, Peter!' Mother's voice sounded distant through his 
sleepiness. He acknowledged her wake-up call with an 
undescipherable mumble, turned around in bed and tried to get rid 
of his dreams and find back into the real world. He had been up 
late into the night yesterday, because his choir had given a 
concert in a neighboring city in the evening, and returning home, 
spinning down and getting to rest had taken their time too. School 
really shouldn't start that early, he thought, specially after such 
an evening! Better if it started later everyday, say at 10 in the 
morning, a decent time to get up in daylight! Or better still, no 
school at all...  

'Peter, will you get up or will I have to pull you out of your 
bed?' He had almost fallen asleep again! He half jumped, half fell 
out of the bed and stood up. 'I'm coming, mom!' He got out of his 
pyjama, tossed it into the corner (that was his style of 
orderliness!), and dressed. A quick visit to the bathroom that was 
not enough to fully get rid of his sleepiness interrupted his way 
to the kitchen, where mom had already prepared breakfast. While he 
ate some fruit and bread with jam, his mother asked how the concert 
had been. Peter's face lit up as he told his mother about it. They 
had sung a very mixed programme, a kind of showcase of their 
repertoire: It contained pretty much everything from Ars Nova 
through short baroque and classical works right to a Negro 
Spiritual, some folcloric songs from different parts of the world 
and even a choral arrangement from a recent movie's soundtrack. He 
had to laugh as he told mother about the mess caused by Tom, an 
older student from the last grade who had to sing a bass solo 
against the choir, and entered at the wrong moment. The conductor 
had tried to coax the choir into catching up with Tom, because the 
soloist was so forlorn in his singing that he didn't look at the 
conductor, but many of the choir members were busy reading the 
music and didn't look at the poor conductor either... It had been a 
big mess, only near the end of the piece did they all find together 
again. The audience didn't seem to have noticed anything...  It 
always surprised Peter how they could mess up big time without too 
many people noticing it.

After breakfast he grabbed his school things and left. He lived 
just 10 minutes walking time away from the school, and he used 
these early morning walks in the cool air to fully wake up. His 
school was one of the nicest around, if any school could be nice at 
all... It was a very old institution, which from the start had had 
a very strong commitment to arts. There were all the normal 
classes, but there were also painting academies, dance groups, a 
literary circle, the poetry club, the TheaterTroup and many 
different musical groups. They had chamber orchestras, Rock groups, 
a Big Band, several groups specialized in folk and traditional 
music of countries as diverse as Austria and Bali, an Orff 
orchestra (mainly for the youngest kids), and even a full fledged 
symphonic orchestra with over 40 members. But what made the school 
most famous was the choir, or better the choirs. As this was by 
tradition an all-boys school even in our modern co-ed times, they 
could not assemble a full mixed choir with female voices, but they 
made up for this by having a pure boy choir composed mainly by 
pupils from grades 5 to 7 or 8, and a male choir in which the older 
boys sung after their voices broke. For most mayor concerts the two 
choirs were joined to get a full complement of voices, in the style 
of most british church choirs, but with one important difference: 
The alto voices were sung by boys too, instead of the countertenors 
so common in England, which gave the choir a sonority closer to 
that of german all-male choirs. Peter's father had collected quite 
a lot of CDs, among which were many featuring such choirs, so Peter 
had a pretty good idea about these things.

School was like always, a few funny things, many less funny ones, 
and some hours of deep boredom. Why MUST one learn about history? 
What the heck is so important about the exact day on which some 
obscure general started a battle against a long-extinct tribe 
somewhere around the world? History was so much more interesting 
when presented in a lively manner, but even then was it basically 
unnecessary, at least in Peter's opinion.

In the classroom he was seated next to his best friend Bertrand. He 
was a genuine French, and that made him something special in the 
class, despite the fact that he moved into town as a very small 
boy. But Peter liked him just because Bertrand was a fine buddy, he 
could count on him on whatever it was, and Bertrand grew quite 
affixed to Peter just because Peter accepted him as a good guy and 
not as "the exotic stranger". Their friendship was of course not 
free of some minor fights over silly things, but they always 
quickly made peace after such incidents. As Bertrand lived farther 
away and could not return home for lunch, Peter often invited him 
home. Bertrand was welcome there, with his strange flair of 
elegance, bright joy and apparent melancholy.


In the afternoon they had a choir rehearsal. Even if the real thing 
were the concerts, not the rehearsals, Peter liked them a lot. 
After the boring history class this morning, spending two hours 
singing Haydn and Mozart was a whole lot better! Even more, he had 
some solos to sing! A month ago, after Mr. Holtmann had told his 
choir the good news that they had been engaged for a concert at the 
cathedral, that was to feature classical sacred pieces, he had 
talked to Peter and asked him if he felt capable of singing the 
treble solo part in the Mozart mass. Peter almost shit in his pants 
when hearing this! He had had that problem forever, any performance 
was automatically connected with diarrhea several days before, but 
now, just hearing the teacher's proposal produced a flash reaction 
in his guts. He had pressed firmly together his rear cheeks and 
answered in his freshest voice: 'Sure, Mr.Holtmann!' So he was now 
doomed, but he thoroughly enjoyed it! This was to be the first time 
he would sing a major solo part in public.

While they sang, and Mr.Holtmann had them repeat the same few 
choral parts over and over, Peter's mind wandered towards the 
performance to come. How would the mass sound with the full choir 
and the orchestra? Right now there were just the trebles and altos, 
while Mr.Holtmann played a piano accompaniment that miserably tried 
to replace the other voices and the orchestra... The mass even had 
an organ part, would Mr.Holtmann play that on his stinky Casio 
keyboard, or would the big cathedral organ be used? He loved that 
organ with its mighthy, full and rich sound that seemed to come 
from everywhere, and the idea to sing a solo against that thing 
frightened him a little bit, but also pushed him to train his voice 
and systematically try ways for getting a stronger voice without 
making it sound forced. Specific breathing techniques and positions 
of the mouth and tongue helped a lot in this regard. Well, almost 
half of the choir rehearsals were dedicated to these exercises, and 
Mr. Holtmann was giving him some extra classes two times a week to 
train him for the soloist job. 

Near the end of the rehearsal time at last they sang through the 
whole piece, Peter sang his treble solos, his classmate Robert sang 
the alto solos in a marvelous way, while Mr. Holtmann did his best 
to be orchestra, organ, tenors and basses all at the same time. 
This was starting to sound good! 

They were promised a joint rehearsal with the older singers early 
next week, and then they went home. Peter was thoroughly glad that 
the day had ended early. Last evening's concert had been great, but 
6 hours sleep was just not enough for a twelve-year-old. He did the 
little homework he had gotten, then the whole family had dinner. 
This was the only time when they were all together, his father 
working a schedule which kept him from seeing his children even for 
breakfast but at least let him return home early, and his sister 
attending a school farther away, so she was driven there by dad 
every morning before Peter even waked up. Oh yes, his school had 
more advantages than the music. It was nearby.

After dinner Peter had one of those marathon showers that he liked 
so much, as they gave him another opportunity to sing it all out, 
and which his mother abhorred because they made the propane bill 
shoot through the roof. Then he went to bed and fell asleep like a 
rock.

-----ooooo-----

It had been a hard month. They had done a lot of extra rehearsals 
for the cathedral concert, and Mr. Holtmann had found a liking to 
Peter's solo singing and had given him a lot more work: He should 
record several pieces for a set of CDs the school was producing as 
a background work, featuring nothing less than a complete rendering 
of Heinrich Schütz' Little Sacred Concertos! Peter couldn't help 
thinking that Mr. Holtmann was pressing him to record these pieces 
as soon as possible. He knew he was singing them well, better than 
the other treble soloists, and he knew something else too: He was 
twelve years old, in the seventh grade, and puberty could not be 
far off. After all, several of his classmates had already stopped 
singing (and not yet restarted it), and if he thought of the boys 
in the eight grade, there were just two or three who still had 
their voices intact. Such a shit, WHY does this happen!!! He was so 
happy with his present voice! His father had a CD set of the Little 
Sacred Concertos, sung by soloists from the famous Tölz boy choir, 
and Peter couldn't help noticing the bold contrast between the 
marvelous, brilliant pieces sung by the boys, and the rather dull 
and boring parts performed by their grownup counterparts. It was 
quite understandable that Mr. Holtmann wanted him to record as much 
as possible before it was too late. Anyway it was funny that the 
teacher had "discovered" him only now, when he was so close to 
ending his treble career.

He tought all this while sitting on the bathroom throne, trying to 
get rid of the revolution inside his guts. This evening was the 
concert at the cathedral, with his first big solo role, and he had 
the shits, worse than ever. It was so silly, he KNEW that he knew 
his part, he KNEW that he could (and would) sing it well, but he 
just got the shits anyway. He was really empty now, since the 
morning he hadn't been able to eat anything, lest it come back up 
real quick, so he felt quite weak. Inside his belly anyway there 
was a rumor that made him fear he would shit in his pants on the 
way to the cathedral. 
      
He got up, grabbed his choir robe, and went down. Dad was already 
waiting for him. He would drive him there and attend the concert 
too. Mom unfortunately couldn't attend, as his little sister was 
down with measles and mom was playing the nurse for her. Peter felt 
so weak that he had trouble walking to the car. This was always the 
worse moment, once they were underway for some strange reason he 
felt better. 

It was like always: Once they were assembled and ready to begin the 
concert, the weakness went away and he felt great. The audience 
down there was waiting in silence, the orchestra players were 
tuning their instruments, Mr.Holtmann was giving the singers the 
start notes, and yes, the big organ was manned by the cathedral's 
organist! Great! This was what he liked most, this was his life! 
Emotion almost overcame him as the organ and the orchestra set in 
for the first part of the concert, which was the Haydn mass. Peter 
had no solo part here, but the treble solo was being sung by his 
best friend Bertrand, who had a rather soft but very sweet voice 
well suited to this music. The alto solos were sung, of course, by 
Robert. The school just had no better alto singer than him, and 
anyway boy altos were rather rare, so Robert got a lot of work. He 
coped with it well and sang everything with that marvelous deep 
chest voice that had earned him so much applause.
While Peter sang in the choir parts, and listened during solo and 
orchestral parts, he again reaffirmed his decision: Singing would 
be his life, there was just no other way! 

After the Haydn mass they sang the famous "Ave, verum corpus", that 
late small work by Mozart, which even being rather simple, was very 
moving when well sung, and was often used as a fill-in or 
separating piece between the two mayor works in a concert. He sang 
it softly, holding back his voice for the solos that were to come 
now.

And it started, the Mozart mass. What a jubilant, brightly festive 
music! Peter was now immersed in the music, he was a part of it. He 
barely noticed what was the choir, the orchestra, the majestic 
organ, the bass and tenor soloists, Robert, or his own solo 
singing, it was just one gorgeous music that resounded in the great 
old cathedral! He trew his voice in the air, put in grace notes as 
the moment inspired him, saw the broad smile in Mr.Holtmann's face 
and knew that he was doing well. YES, this was his life, he had 
been born to sing! He had never known this better than now!

It was custom that in the church no one should applaud. But every 
rule had its exception, and the applause roared when the music was 
over. Peter was somewhat tired, but his cheeks glowed, and he felt 
great when Mr.Holtmann congratulated him for his performance, 
something the teacher did not do very often. When he met his father 
some minutes later, he saw signs of tears in the man's face. 'Dad, 
have you been crying?' he asked half joking. Dad grabbed him around 
his waist and lifted him up. 'Don't ask me if it is Mozart or you, 
but yes, I couldn't help it.'

 Once home, he ate a huge dinner, compensating for all that he had 
not eaten earlier in the day due to his diarrhea, which was now 
completely gone. Then he showered and went to bed, but he couldn't 
sleep so quickly after this concert. So, there he lay, still 
savoring the success he had had that evening, and at the same time 
knowing that in a few months, a year at most, it would be all gone. 
He would enter the ranks of the mute choirboys, and perhaps a year 
later start learning from scratch to sing tenor or bass. Producing 
dull and boring sounds. O shit! He grasped his balls and pulled 
hard on them. Those little critters were the culprits! He hit them 
with his fist. Ouch! They wanted to cut off his treble career, and 
when he punished them, HE felt the ache! How vile is this world! He 
grinned into the dark bedroom. Was this the start of adolescence? 
Being mad at his own balls and beating them for their intention of 
making his voice break?  Peter started putting the facts together. 
He was slightly over twelve years old. According to the biology 
teacher, the average age for the onset of puberty is 12.6 years. 
Hmmm. Puberty is preceeded by the growth spurt. He had been growing 
a lot lately, so much in fact that whenever his mother's friends 
came visiting and said 'How big this boy is! He seems to be growing 
a lot!', he usually answered 'After school and before going to bed, 
what better thing could I do than growing? It's my hobby!'. Every 
morning, when he stretched his limbs after waking up, he could 
really feel how the muscles were a little bit to short for the 
bones, and the first stretch each day hurt in a slight but 
refreshing way. Clearly, he wasn't far from puberty. Shit. He 
grabbed his balls again and pulled them down. Yes, they were 
growing too. Suddenly he realized that lately it happened quite 
often that when running he trapped his balls between his legs, and 
that hurt a lot! When biking sometimes he had to accomodate his 
balls in some position where they would not get in the way. None of 
these things had happened to him in earlier years. His balls must 
have been growing, and he didn't realize it until now! Shit shit 
shit! His voice was in danger! There he had been, singing his first 
major solo part, and maybe it would be his last! 
He calmed down a bit while he let go his balls. So, puberty was 
starting soon. That meant, he would grow hair at all kinds of 
places. Silly, but not terrible. He would grow a beard. That was 
actually funny! He imagined his face graced by a full beard... not 
so bad! And he would have to look after girls. Absurd. Those silly 
beings, how could they ever attract someone? Those guys who run 
after them must be truly crazy!  Whenever you were playing with 
girls, they would suddenly start giggling and drop out of the game! 
No, that wasn't for him. At least he couldn't imagine what was so 
attractive about them.  And later? Being a grown man, singing tenor 
or bass, maybe with a quite bad voice, marrying some woman like his 
mother, having children... lots of problems! And all that caused by 
those silly little things there between his legs? He gave them 
another blow. Ouch! And another! OUCH!  He knew about the italian 
castrati in past centuries. According to historians, they were 
generally ripped away from their parents, forcefully castrated and 
then forced to take up a singing career. How silly! He really 
couldn't imagine that! Most probably those kids actually asked to 
be castrated! Lucky ones! If he had the opportunity, he wouldn't 
doubt it a moment!  He imagined the situation: All of his 
classmates lieing on those wheeled hospital beds, naked from the 
waist down. The beds were forming a long row. Far in the front 
would be the school doctor. He would castrate a boy, toss his 
testicles into a bucket standing on his side, then that bed would 
be wheeled away and the next brought by. The next boy would spread 
his legs, the doctor would castrate him, and so on. They all would 
be singing their best songs during the procedure, the choir would 
just be interrupted by some boy yelling when he was cut, but most 
would resist the pain, almost without interrupting their singing. 
Peter spread his legs as he imagined laying on that hospital bed, 
plastic on the white sheets, feeling cold and smooth. His feet 
touched each other, his knees were almost flat against the 
mattress. Now he would be wheeled to the place where the doctor was 
doing his job. Smiling, the doctor would grab his balls. Peter 
grabbed them. The doctor would now pull them a little away from the 
body. Peter pulled them. Then the doctor would quickly cut them 
off! Peter almost felt the doctor's blade cutting him. He imagined 
how this would hurt, while the doctor would throw his balls into 
the bucket, which was already half full with a bloody soup of 
testicles and sacks. But then his voice would be safe forever, he 
would not have to worry about puberty, he would have no need to 
court silly girls... How nice would that be! It would be well worth 
the pain involved! Invaded by such sweet dreams he fell asleep.

-----ooooo-----


The next day Peter was chatting with Bertrand about the concert. He 
congratulated his friend for his performance, but Bertrand didn't 
want to hear anything such. 'You are much better, Peter, and you 
know it! Your duo with Robert was very good!' By this time Robert 
came over, a strange look in his eyes. The sensitive Bertrand 
noticed it first. 'Robert, what's the matter with you?! Are you 
sick?' Robert answered in a very low voice, almost whispering: 'Not 
really. But it's over now.' 'What's over? What do you mean?'  In an 
even lower voice Robert said: 'Didn't you notice it yesterday?' 
Peter put on a well-meaning face and commented: 'You mean when you 
didn't hit the A? Come on, that can happen to anyone! Almost no one 
will have noticed it! You sang great!' Now Robert couldn't control 
himself any longer and broke into tears, almost shouting it 
out: 'I've been trying to control it for months, but I can't 
anymore! My voice is breaking!!' And indeed, speaking that loud his 
voice folded over in the midst of the sentence. Peter was deeply 
touched by this revelation. It was almost unbelievable that 
yesterday's great performance had been Robert's last, at least as 
an alto. He had not connected that single failure of intonation to 
a breaking voice, but sure, that was how it started. Bertrand was 
trying to comfort Robert in the sense that the world will not break 
down, life isn't over yet, Robert will surely become a very good 
bass, and so forth. Peter was more pragmatic, he grasped Robert's 
hand and pressed it firmly. 'Congratulations. You did a great job 
controlling yourself. Does Mr.Holtmann know?' 'I think he knows, 
but I didn't tell him. If not, he will find out soon enough!' 
Robert tried to smile. 'He will have to find another alto now to 
complete the Schütz recording.' He fought back his tears.

That afternoon Peter and Bertrand went biking. They did this quite 
often, doing long excursion into the surrounding countryside. Of 
course they could not get permission from their parents, as both 
mothers were very worried about all the bad things that could 
happen to their kids. So they had devised a clever scheme for 
breaking the chains: Peter would tell his mother he was going to 
Bertrands house, which he usually did by bicycle, and Bertrand 
would tell his mother he was at Peter's place. They met halfway 
between and off they went, exploring the world! The scheme had 
always worked, the mothers felt in control and the boys were free.
 
Today they had taken a path south that lead through a forest and 
passed by the lake. They had come here many times already and knew 
a place where they could test their ship models in shallow water, 
chat, swim, undisturbed by other people. They were alone here, just 
in the company of songbirds. The path was quite a test for their 
mountain bikes, but it was much nicer than pedalling down along a 
highway. It was a hot day, so when they arrived at the lake after a 
hourlong trip, the first thing to do was to get the clothes off and 
jump into the water. They weren't shy of each other, they had 
skinny dipped at this place since they were quite small and had 
just devised their system to break free from mother's control. 
After all, a wet bathing suit would have given them away to their 
mothers!
  
After thoroughly cooling off in the lake and having a water battle 
in which Peter almost drowned Bertrand, but then helped him up, 
they swam to shore and lay belly-down in the grass. The world was 
fine, the birds were singing, the sun was shining warm on their 
backs. But Peter had his worries, and he interrupted the birds, 
commenting: 'Poor Robert. I can so well understand him.' Bertrand 
replied:'That's our destiny. Go to school, have some luck, learn 
singing, enter the choir, spend several years there, have more luck 
and be selected as a soloist, sing a few times and... loose your 
voice. Wait a year, learn to sing again, perhaps you can be a 
mediocre bass or tenor...it's nature's way, we can't do much 
against it.' Peter's heart raced up as he said firmly: 'Oh yes. If 
we really want, we CAN do something.' Bertrand moved as if pricked 
by a cactus. 'You mean...' and he made a scissor-like sign. 'What 
else', replied Peter. 
   
The sun burned on their backs while the idea burned in their minds. 
Peter heard the birds like through a thick layer of fog, forlorn in 
his guesses of what Bertrand may be thinking. They were best 
friends, they had no secrets to hide from each other, but they had 
never talked about such a thing. Bertrand was the first to speak 
again. 'Would you really let them castrate you, Peter?' 'Let them 
do it?' he replied. 'That's not the right question! Who, do you 
believe, would be willing to castrate a choirboy just because he 
wants it? You think you can go to see a doctor and ask him - 
please, doctor, cut off my nuts, I want to keep singing treble in 
the school choir - the next guy you would see would be a shrink, 
they would lock you up in the funnyhouse, there your voice would 
change anyway, and you could not even sing tenor, funnyhouses have 
no choirs! No, Bertrand, I think the only way to do it would be to 
be one's own doctor.' Peter had spurted this out very fast, he 
couldn't help becoming appassionate about it. So many hours he had 
spent thinking about it, now at last he could tell his friend.

Bertrand got up, walked to the shore, cupped his hands, filled them 
with water, walked back and thrusted the water into Peter's 
face. 'Wake up, Peter! Your are dreaming! Or do you need a shrink 
right now?' Peter took it with a smile. 'Maybe you are quite right, 
and I'm crazy like the cow in the ballet room. But isn't a little 
bit of craziness a good thing? Aren't we ALL crazy? Spending much 
of our time rehearsing, giving concerts for free, singing music 
that for the most part is several hundred years old? My neighbors 
play soccer, basketball, go to parties, hear rock and pop, get 
their ears pierced, aren't THEY crazy? I'm sure they are much more 
crazy than I am! Bertrand, my life is singing! You told me I was 
doing it well, and I believe you. If I don't do something, in a few 
months it will be over. Do you think I'm crazy just because I want 
to go on with singing? Sure, I could become a tenor. But how in the 
world can I KNOW if my voice after all that will be at least 
decent?' He stood up and put his hands on Bertrands shoulders. 
Looking into his friend's eyes, he said 'Singing is my life. I'm 
sure of this. If I can't sing well after my voice breaks, I may 
kill myself. I'm crazy enough to do that. And maybe I'm crazy 
enough to avoid the risk.' Peter looked down along the slim body of 
his friend. Clearly Bertrand was less developed than him. No 
wonder, he was several months younger too. He would have more time 
to decide un such issues. 
Bertrand grasped his friend's hands, removed them from his 
shoulders and said, shivering a little: 'Whatever you do, count on 
me. But please, do it CAREFULLY!'

No further word was spoken. The boys dressed, and biked back home 
on the narrow forest trail. Once in the city, they did their usual 
bike race as they always did after returning from their trips. 
Peter won by a small margin. They parted where they always did and 
each one went home. Nothing had changed between them.

-----ooooo-----


During the following days Peter did a thorough investigation on 
castrati singers, castration techniques, and related subjects. He 
spent many hours in the school library, scanning through 
encyclopaedias, music history books, and grazing the internet. As 
always, the best source of information was the internet. Books just 
seemed to be obsolete, but he did find some good info there too. 
There was much misguiding info out there, but after a week or so he 
had pretty much all the facts there were. He found out that all 
known castrati singers had been italian. No wonder, much music of 
that time was italian, and the italian language was still present 
in today's music. More interesting was the fact that the idea of 
castrating choirboys had started in the Sistine Chapel, apparently 
under the direct supervision of the pope! From that catholic start 
in the renaissance the practice had extended, and in the baroque 
almost all italian operas had at least one role for a castrato, 
often several. A lot of castrati sang in England, but they were all 
italians. Later the fashions changed, and castrati singers slowly 
disappeared, but in the Sistine Chapel they continued singing until 
the early 1900's! The last castrato was a certain Mr. Moreschi. 
Moreschi. Moreschi! Somewhere Peter had seen that name. He would 
have to check his father's CD collection, somehow he remembered 
having seen that name there! Could that be?

The most interesting thing he had found in the internet. A 
professor for early music had published an article about castrati. 
It described the history of them, and then went on explaining how 
the British rediscovered their liking for high male voices, leading 
to a renewed interest in countertenors in falsettists during the 
last four or five decades. He mentioned that a lot of today's pop 
singers obscure their sexual identity, since this seems to appeal 
to the public. The author concluded that castrati singers would 
again be acceptable today. He had written textually 'Our time is 
ripe for a revival of the castrati tradition!' Peter had read that 
sentence many times over. This was his future!  He had become 
obsessed with the idea of being the first castrato in this new and 
brilliant era!

Less attractive were the methods used to make those castrati. Those 
old italians must have been brutal people! Peters hairs rised up as 
he read about the methods used. The most common, according to what 
he found, had been putting the boy in a hot bath, waiting a while 
for the balls to get loose, and then crushing them with a tool or 
just with strong fingers until the balls were ground to a paste! 
Peter imagined that done to him. If just lightly hitting his balls 
caused shudders of pain, how would THAT feel? He had got kicked in 
the balls one time, and almost choked as he couldn't control his 
breathing. Then he had spent the next several minutes vomiting just 
from pain. Even days later they had been aching, and that kick had 
been much too soft to cause any damage. He also thought of the mess 
in his ballbag after that procedure. Probably the bag filled up 
with the mix of ball paste and blood. No, it didn't sound 
attractive.
Some boys had been castrated by cleanly cutting their balls off, 
either by cutting off the whole bag or by removing the balls 
through small slits. But many of those had died from infections. 
Well, today there were antibiotics, and above all, even he knew 
that any instruments would have to be sterilized to avoid that 
danger, which was probably unknown back then. But still he saw no 
way to do such surgery to himself.
      
Much more helpful were some web pages he had found, which described 
castration of farm animals. For example, one of them explained that 
when cutting through the cords of the balls, it was a good idea to 
slowly scrape through them with the knife instead of cutting 
cleanly. According to the article, this reduced the blood loss. The 
article also suggested just ripping the cords off instead of 
cutting them, but again this didn't sound attractive...   
At several places Peter found mentions of a so-called Burdizzo 
clamp, that was used to crush the cords right through the bag, 
without any cut. Peter had played with himself, had felt his ball 
cords, and knew that they were very much less sensitive than the 
balls, so the idea of castrating himself by this way looked better. 
He may just be able to do it. But then?  The balls would die and 
rot inside his still-alive bag, how would that be handled? All 
kinds of toxins could flow off into his body. He feared mayor 
problems from this. And how could he come by a Burdizzo tool? One 
that was the proper size for human boys? He grinned.  By the way, 
perhaps Mr. Burdizzo had been one of those italian castrati-makers? 
He grinned even more. Nice coincidence. An italian name on such a 
tool.

But the method that seemed most easily usable as a do-it-yourself 
project clearly was banding the whole bag. He found many references 
to a tool that applied elastic rings to castrate animals. According 
to the sources, the rubber bands would cut off all blood flow and 
make the bag with its contents dry up, until it fell off some weeks 
later. This system looked clean, easy and safe, but Peter was 
knowledgeable enough to understand that if there were any leaks 
through which something could go from the balls to the body, toxins 
from the dead flesh would come through, placing him in great 
danger. So, if he did it, he would have to do it well.

-----ooooo-----


The day for Peter's first recording session for the Schütz CDs had 
come. Today he would record two pieces for solo treble, one that 
featured two trebles, and three where he would record with Robert. 
Despite being well into puberty, that boy showed an incredible 
control over his voice, and while he could no longer speak up 
without problems, he could still sing at low voice. Sometimes his 
voice folded over, but it didn't happen too often, so they could 
just repeat the recording when it had happened. It seemed that 
Robert was one of those rare boys who could keep singing decently 
through the voice change, and he would make a smooth transition to 
the next stage. But Mr.Holtmann anyway had pressed Robert into 
recording his solo alto pieces for the Schütz CDs before it was too 
late, so now they were doing the pieces with voice combinations. 
Soon Robert would be free from this work, while for Peter it was 
just starting. 
The other treble in today's session was Bertrand. Mr.Holtmann had 
not been very convinced about Bertrand's suitability for this kind 
of music, which required more dramatic than sweet voices. But after 
hearing Bertrand sing a duo with Peter, he had made up his mind. 
The contrast between those two voices, the way in which they 
complemented each other, just was too good! So, Bertrand had 
entered the ranks of the Schütz singers.

Peter was expecting to get the shits again, as he did before every 
concert. But it came as a nice surprise, nothing happened! That 
mind-guts-connection seemed to work only for live concerts, not for 
recordings! So much better...

The recording of the first Little Sacred Concerto had to be 
repeated three times. It featured just Peter, with a basso continuo 
consisting of a cello and a small positive organ. Fortunately it 
was a REAL organ, not Mr.Holtmann's Casio! First the teacher had 
wanted to use his keyboard, as it was so portable and convenient. 
But when his boy singers threatened to strike, he gave in and 
rented that positive organ for the recordings. It was quite a mess 
to get it into the recording studio, after all the portability of 
such a thing is quite limited, but it was worth the effort.
Despite the real organ, Peter had trouble at first getting into 
gear. The first Little Sacred Concerto was a very dramatic piece, 
and required first-class rendering to catch the attention of the 
listeners. After all, it would be the first thing any potential 
buyer of the CD set would hear! Peter had listened to the recording 
by the Tölz boys on his dad's CDs, and taken that as a model, but 
he found it hard to imitate that singing, and rather tried to put 
his own expression into it. But he was stageman enough to need the 
presence of a crowd to give his best. In a recording studio, 
surrounded by cables and microphones, alone with Mr.Holtmann and 
the cello player which he didn't even know, it was a bit hard to 
deliver as good a singing as he would have done in a concert hall. 
But slowly the hall, crowd and all, started to form in his mind, 
and he reached his accustomed quality.

The second concerto was a success on the first try, Mr.Holtmann's 
smile as he listened to the master tape spoke for it. Then Peter 
had a relax while Robert would record the third concerto, which was 
for solo alto. Peter sat in the control room, next to Bertrand, 
listening to the monitors and observing the work of the sound 
technician. The mixer was easy to understand, but just how did that 
guy remember what he had on each channel? There were over a dozen 
mikes! But apparently he did, as the sound was good... Just Robert 
wasn't as good. He sounded hoarse. Mr.Holtmann had the piece 
repeated over and over. Robert was close to giving up, judging from 
his face. But then he started to get better, singing at very low 
volume, close to the mike, with a voice that though it still was an 
alto, didn't sound very boy-like at all. But at least, it sounded 
interesting... Poor Robert. Peter compared what he heard to what he 
remembered from his father's CDs, and there was a world of 
difference. The boy on that recording had sung with a very deep 
voice, but still totally boy-like. Peter's mind again wandered off, 
like it had done so often during the last weeks. He didn't want 
that to happen to his own voice. He had to go on with his plan. He 
HAD to! And soon, before it was too late!!!
The fifth try of Robert's piece was quite OK, except for his voice 
folding over close to the end of the piece. It was repeated again, 
that time, at last, everything worked out. Mr.Holtmann decided to 
have a break before going on. Robert was sitting there, looking 
tired and desperate. Peter went over to him, patted him on the 
back, and tried to cheer him up: 'You performed quite well after 
all!' Robert tried a grin, but it looked rather 
tragicomical. 'Thanks, buddy, but it was quite well for a clown, 
not for a singer. I can't go on with this.' And turning over to the 
teacher 'I'm just making you loose your time. You will have to 
remake these recordings with someone else.' Mr.Holtmann 
replied 'Maybe you are right for some of them, but definitely not 
all! You sense that your singing is no longer good, but believe me, 
it's still quite attractive, despite your problems! We will keep at 
least some of your recordings on the CDs, and today's is definitely 
among them! Now let's go record the duos, and just take it easy, 
Robert!'
The words of encouragement worked wonders, and these recordings 
went rather well. Peter's intense treble voice duetting with 
Roberts somewhat shaky but very warm alto would be a highlight on 
the CDs. By the time they were ready, Bertrand had almost forgotten 
he was in for a recording too. He warmed up a little, and off they 
went, the duo between the bright-voiced Peter and and Bertrands 
calm and sweet tone! Mr.Holtmann had it repeated, just to be sure 
to pick the best version, but the understanding between these two 
boys was so good that the second version was just alike the first 
one. There was nothing left to be improved, and it was a proper end 
for the day's recording session.

-----ooooo-----


On that evening Peter did not sing much under the shower. He had 
done enough in the recording studio, and in addition his mind was 
again far away, lost in the jungle of his intentions. He HAD to do 
it, the sooner the better. The clock was ticking. He had lots of 
fears about it. Would he be able to keep the secret before his 
parents? For how long? What would happen afterwards? How would they 
react? Would they lock him up in the funnyhouse? And what if it was 
already too late, if some hormones had already started their 
destructive work? No, he discarded that quickly. His voice was 
still clear and stable, he could do whatever he wanted with it. In 
fact, he had never felt more in control of his voice. Now, if he 
banded himself, how would he hide it in the locker room at school? 
He could trust Bertrand, and probably some other classmates too, 
but not all. If he gave away his secret, someone would talk. And 
what if something bad happened, an infection or whatever? And the 
most difficult question, WOULD he ever do it, or would he always 
chicken out?
Under the warm water his ballbag had loosened, and he felt around 
it. Those little silly things. attached by those ropes to his 
inside. Producing juices that would make his voice break... 
NOOOOOOO!  He HAD to get rid of them! He HAD to do it!!!  Those 
things down there were strangers, his enemies, they wanted to 
destroy him! He had to destroy THEM before!

Peter shut off the water and towelled his body. He went to his 
bedroom and looked through his junk box. He always collected 
whatever could be useful for building model ships, fixing his bike, 
or doing thousand other things. Sure, he had a good collection of 
rubber bands there. He selected a quite long and thin one. He lay 
back on the bed and listened. His sister must already be asleep, 
and his parents were chatting down in the living room. No danger. 
He grabbed his balls with one hand, pulled them as far away as 
possible, then slid the rubber band over them. He stretched it, 
gave it a twist and put it over his ballbag again. Another twist, 
and another loop around. The band was long enough to go five times 
around his bag. It looked odd, his balls connected to the body just 
through a thin skin tube, deeply constricted by the rubber band. He 
could flip his balls around, and it didn't really hurt at all. He 
sat up on the bed's edge. Ouch, he was almost sitting on his balls! 
That DID hurt. He stood up and tried walking around. It felt very 
awkward, his banded balls dancing around and getting trapped 
between his legs on every step! He lay back on the bed again and 
removed the rubber band.

Peter was not the kind of guy who gave up easily. In fact, he could 
be quite stubborn at times. He played around with his balls, which 
felt very much smaller when loose then when banded. Obviously he 
had banded them to far down. If he placed the rubber band closer to 
his body, maybe there would be enough skin left around the balls to 
leave them free to float around? He tried it, but there was not 
much to gain. He just did not have enough skin there to play such 
tricks. His skin was very taut above the band, and this could cause 
trouble for the healing. Meanwhile, his balls still got in the way 
when walking or sitting. And he preferred not to think about 
biking...
He tried a third approach, this time pulling the balls forward and 
banding them with little skin, but very close to his penis, leaving 
lots of skin behind the banding. Now the banded balls seemed to 
stick up in the air when he was laying back, but he could sit 
perfectly well as long as he kept his legs a little apart. He tried 
to walk, and it was no problem. He even thought that he could ride 
his bike in this condition! Peter was now sure: This was the way to 
go.
He lay back on the bed while concentrating on the sensation. His 
balls were getting cold, but he felt like they were very hot! 
Strange... he grinned. Then he started feeling a tickle in his 
balls, the same kind he sometimes got in a leg when sitting still 
for too much time. Good, just one band was enough to stop blood 
flow! A few more would give a safety factor. He hid the banded 
balls in his hand. That was the way he would look afterwards! 
Really, not bad at all! He removed the rubber band, and felt blood 
rush into his ballbag. Some more time for them to live! He slipped 
into his pyjama and went to bed. He quickly fell asleep, having 
assured that the technical aspect of his plan was solved.


-----ooooo-----


After classes next day Peter invited Bertrand out on a bike tour. 
Bertrand was eager to go, as he always was. Those trips out into 
the wide world, free as only boys of that age can be, away from the 
control of any grownup, were one of his best beloved activities. So 
they met halfways between their homes, after having told their 
mothers the usual story, and went off. They biked the trail up a 
nearby hill. It was quite some work to pedal up the steep slope, 
but it was fun too, specially when Peter proposed a race for the 
last stretch to the summit, and Bertrand won it. He was a bit 
lighter than Peter, apparently that counted a lot! Peter arrived 
more short-breathed than his friend. They lay back in the grass and 
overlooked the landscape: The city down there, the woods, the lake 
farther away, the roads, more hills. Higher hills. Whenever you 
climbed a hill, there was another, higher one, just behind. You 
could never be at the top on the first try. But you could go on 
trying. Being the first to climb a hill, gave a good chance to be 
the first to climb the highest one too...
 
'Peeeeeteeeer, come baaack! Where are you?' Bertrand was waving his 
hand in front of Peter's face. 'You seem to be absent half of the 
time lately. Are you in love or what?' Bertrand grinned broadly.  
Peter refocused his eyes and looked into his friend's face. 
'Do you remember our conversation down by the lake?'
'Sure!'
'Did you tell anybody about it?'
'Of COURSE not! You know you can trust me! Do you still want to try 
winning an admission to the funnyhouse?'
'I would like to avoid the shrinks, but I will risk it. Are you 
still willing to help me?' 
'I promised it.' Bertrand paused for a moment. 'Do you want me to 
find an axe and hack something off you? Be careful, I have very bad 
aim. Or should I steal mother's big kitchen knife? It's THIS size!' 
and he showed the dimensions of a rather considerable tool.
Peter felt a chill run down his back. His guts started rumouring 
like they did before a concert. 'For the moment the only help I 
need is that you don't tell anyone a word. I will do it myself. But 
I may need help if something goes wrong. I have no idea what kind 
of help, that would be your decision. If I die, you would have to 
explain it to everyone, and try to convince them that I wasn't mad. 
If all goes well, you would have to shield me somehow in the locker 
room, so no one can see me. Can you do this?'
Now Bertrand looked absent-minded. 'Sure I can. But... will you 
really cut off your own eggs? That must hurt like hell!'
'I won't cut anything. I will just kill them.'
Bertrand laughed. 'Go down to the drugstore, and buy some egg 
poison! Smear it on, and wait!' He got serious again. 'How will you 
do that?'
Peter made a sign of strangulating something imaginary. 'Rubber 
band.' he said.
Bertrand understood. 'And when?'    'Maybe soon. I don't know 
really.' Peter's guts were revolting. He was starting to feel cold 
sweet on his chest. He lay back and opened his shirt. Oh shit, 
would he ever be able to get rid of this psychosomatic problem? He 
knew so well it was just a silly mind-body connection, but he 
couldn't control it! This was worse than a voice change, really.
  
-----ooooo-----
  

A few days later, the evening found Peter searching his junk box 
for the best, strongest rubber bands. He discarded any that showed 
signs of degradation, and selected a good dozen that were in 
perfect condition. His jeans would be washed tomorrow, so he had to 
wear fresh pants, and he selected the most baggy he had. It would 
have been difficult to fit jeans over the banded balls, so now was 
the moment to go ahead, as he would wear the baggy pants for 
several days. He went to the bathroom, taking the rubber bands with 
him. He undressed and wrapped the bands around his arm. He opened 
the warm water and hopped into the shower. His last shower as a 
normal boy. He sang the first Schütz concerto while he washed 
himself very carefully from head to feet. His genitals got special 
attention. He used a lot of soap on them, just in case. He even 
pulled back his foreskin to wash there, something he hadn't done 
very often, so it was quite hard to do it. But in the interest of 
avoiding trouble, on this special day he did it. He went on with 
the second Schütz concerto, while letting the water run over his 
body and the rubber bands. Old music, already recorded. He 
continued with the first concerto of the second book, which was 
among the ones he was rehearsing now for the second recording 
session. He still couldn't remember all the text, which was in 
german, but some 'la la la' fillings did the job. The warm water 
rushed down. Today during the choir rehearsal a fellow treble 
singer had had his first voice failure. He was even younger than 
Peter! Poor boy! And he sang so well! Now he would be silent too 
for some months or a year, then restart as tenor... Peter was far 
away, lost between stars and galaxies. So, this was the end. His 
end as a normal boy. The end of fear for his voice breaking. If all 
went well, the start of a bright career, giving rise to the new era 
of the castrati. But maybe it was the end of his life. Maybe his 
freedom would be over, if he was locked into the funnyhouse. But 
even that would not be forever. Maybe his parents threw him out, 
but he didn't expect this. He was very sure that he was doing the 
right thing. The only right thing.
Peter shut off the water, dried his body, rubber bands and all. His 
guts were revolting. He had quite some desire to sit down on the 
throne, but he knew that it was all psychological. He went into the 
bedroom. Lay back on the bed. His heart was pumping as fast as it 
could. His breathing was short and hasty. He grabbed his balls, 
moved them up as he had found best a few days ago, and placed a 
rubber band around them. He stretched it as much as possible, and 
wrapped it eight times around his bag. He pulled a little bit of 
skin out of the banding, so the skin wasn't stretched on his side 
of the band. On his balls side the skin was a bit taut. That should 
be OK. He sat up. No problems, with spread legs. He stood up. The 
banded balls stuck out forward. He walked a few steps. No problems. 
It was the right location. It pulled his foreskin slightly back, 
but this would be no problem. After the balls and the bands came 
off, there would be skin to spare. He lay back on the bed, and put 
on the second band, over the first. And the third. The rubber ring 
now felt quite hard, and his balls were starting to cool. With grim 
determination he added another rubber band. This one went ten times 
around! Was this enough to produce a perfect seal? He didn't know. 
He added still another band, then he sit and stood and walked 
again. Everything seemed fine. He placed the remaining rubber bands 
within reach under the bed, put on the pyjama and slipped into the 
bed. He had preferred not using the pyjama, but there was always 
the chance of mom pulling back the bedsheets to wake him up, and 
this would have been a catastrophe if she found him with banded 
balls... The pyjama could at least afford some protection against 
this risk.

Peter lay there, his legs wide spread, footsoles touching each 
other. Not long ago he had dreamed about his castration in this 
very same position. Now it was real. What was better, the real 
thing or the dream? Probably the dream. The real thing was 
beginning to hurt. He hadn't felt any discomfort while applying the 
rubber bands, but now it seemed like they were pressing harder and 
harder. It was not a strong pain, just some discomfort. The rubber 
bands pressed. He could feel his heartbeat, now slower than some 
minutes ago, in the compressed area. His balls were starting to 
feel hot, just like the other day. He touched them. They were 
chilly and wet! He grinned. You two little bastards! Your time has 
come! Now you cannot make my voice break anymore! I'm saved!
It was hurting some more. Peter thought about school, and the 
choir. Someday he would have to tell Mr.Holtmann. And he would have 
to find where and how to take singing lessons. There was no single 
singing school for castrati anywhere in the world now. In the good 
old baroque times there had been three in Napoli alone, if history 
books were correct. Well, as a pioneer in this area he would have 
to face some difficulties.

His guts were starting again making trouble. Was it the 
psychosomatic thing, or was it just the pain from his balls 
radiating up? Or was some toxin from his dying balls leaking up 
into his body? He worried about this. He grabbed two more rubber 
bands and added them to the already existing ones. That should 
improve the seal, if there were any leaks. He did it in the bed, 
there was no need to look. He had enough practice doing this.
His heart pulsed in the banded area, his tied-off balls felt hot, 
but were cold, it all hurted somewhat more, but not unbearably so. 
Peter slowly drowsed off into sleep.

He woke up during the night. He felt a bit feverish, with some 
headache and nausea. Now that was definitely not the same sensation 
he had before a concert. His psychosomatic trouble always wore off 
when sleeping, and this sensation did not. His crotch was not 
aching anymore, just the pulsating sensation was still there. Was 
some juice still leaking through the banding, and poisoning his 
body? Peter grabbed the remaining rubber bands and put them all on. 
He grinned, despite his state. Now THERE could not be anything 
leaking through, the rubber bands were close to cutting his bag 
off! He half slept, half dozed until mom came in with her 
accustomed wake up call.

He got out of bed very carefully, but it was no problem to sit 
down. It did not hurt. He took a deep breath and pulled down his 
pyjama pants. He was deeply frightened when he saw his balls. His 
heart almost stopped. They were nearly black! It looked very odd, 
the reddish slightly swollen area around the banding, then the many 
rubber bands of different colors, and then that ugly, blueish black 
dead mass. Oh yes, dead it was, there was no doubt. Peter touched 
it. It was cold, and felt like rubber. He felt the contact in his 
fingertips, but not at all in his bag. What he felt down there was 
still warmth, together with that pulsating sensation. 
Peter forced himself to be reasonable. He put on his underwear. The 
dead balls poked into the front. It was very visible. He put on his 
socks, shirt, and then very carefully got into his baggy pants. 
Even if they were baggy, he had to be very careful when closing the 
front. But it was possible, it didn't hurt if he moved carefully, 
and the baggyness made it hard to see anything abnormal, unless 
someone looked very carefully. It should be OK. With mixed feelings 
he went down to the breakfast table.

   
Later at school Bertrand noticed at the first sight that his friend 
wasn't in normal shape. 'Gee, Peter, you look like if you had been 
vomiting all night long! Did you spend the evening drinking your 
father's whiskey?' Peter just answered 'Almost. I was a bit sick 
indeed. But IT IS DONE now.' He said this very slowly. Bertrand 
opened his mouth, but before saying anything, closed it again. He 
grabbed his friends hand, shook it firmly, and that was it.

The morning went by slowly. The friends didn't talk about what 
moved both of them so much. Peter would have loved to bike out with 
Bertrand to have a long talk with him, but he didn't dare to try 
biking in his present condition. Any sudden move hurted. In 
addition, the afternoon would be filled by a choir rehearsal. The 
talk had to wait.

After the rehearsal was over, and the boys were about to leave, 
Mr.Holtmann called up several of them. 'Thomas, Peter, Johnny, 
Bertrand, Jimmy, Brian, would you please stay a moment?' What's up 
now, thought Peter. If any other teacher asked a pupil to stay, it 
was usually bad news. But normally this was not the case with their 
choir teacher. Peter was quickly proven right. 'Does anyone of you 
know Benjamin Britten's work "Friday Afternoons"?' he asked. Brian 
thought so. 'You mean that collection of songs with piano 
accompaniment?'  'Right,' the teacher replied, 'and I want you six 
to perform it two weeks from now. It's very short notice, but you 
all read music quite well, that's a strong reason why I chose you. 
Do you like the idea?' Instead of a reply, Peter started singing 
one of the pieces in that work. Mr.Holtmann stared at him in 
awe. 'You know it just so?' Peter stopped his singing. 'It's one of 
my father's favorites, he has it on CD and plays it so often that I 
don't need to read music to sing it...' The boys laughed. The 
teacher smiled too. 'It's a deal?'  'Deal!' the six singers 
shouted. Mr.Holtmann produced six packets of sheet music and handed 
them to the boys. He spent half an hour going through the work and 
assigning the solo roles, then the boys were dismissed for the day. 
It had been long enough.

Once in the street, Bertrand asked Peter 'Did you really do 
it?'  'What?'  'Our secret?' Wow, Peter had really forgotten his 
ache! He quickly replied 'Oh yes, I did it, yesterday night. Funny, 
over the choir class I forgot it!'  'So it's not hurting?'   'It 
did hurt some, but now it's OK.'  Bertrand grasped Peter's hand 
like he had done in the morning. 'Congratulations,' he said, 'and 
if you need my help, just let me know!'  They parted. Peter slowly 
walked home. That was a real friend. No silly questions. Just 
support and help. Good he had Bertrand. Alone, it would have been 
hard to bear this load.

-----ooooo-----

The next two weeks were filled with work. There was the school, the 
normal choir rehearsals, the additional work for the Schütz 
recording, plus the rehearsals for "Friday Afternoons" by Britten. 
Peter almost didn't remember that he had such hobbies as building 
model ships. There was just no time for such child's play. He felt 
like a professional singer now. But the work went well. Bertrand's 
voice was marvelous for the Britten music, he excelled in the sweet 
and mellow rendering necessary for much of this music, while Peter 
did the more dramatic and brilliant solos. The other four boys, who 
were sixth graders, mainly took part in the tuttis, except for one 
piece where each of them had a short solo. The six of them formed a 
miniature chamber choir, divided in two groups of three. It was a 
small scale affair, with a very intimate sound. Mr.Holtmann asured 
them that it would be better than using the entire boy choir, as 
they were to sing the piece for the opening of a painting 
exhibition, in the presence of the artists, authorities, and 
interested people. If they did well, Holtmann promised, they may do 
a small tour, singing the piece at retirement homes and similar 
places where short recitals by small ensembles would be welcome. 
And of course, the possibility was always open to perform the piece 
within a larger concert involving the full choir, as a kind of 
interlude between two major pieces.

With all this work, Peter found little time to think about his self-
mutilation. He just examined himself each evening under the shower, 
and actually grew amused by the changes of color in his tied-off 
bag. From almost black it turned to brown, yellowish, several 
shades of green were also there, often several colors could be seen 
at the same time! It didn't hurt at all now, there was just the 
pressure sensation of the rubber bands, but even this feeling was 
almost disappearing, as he grew accustomed to it. But he had to 
take care of avoiding sudden tugs and pulls, as these caused 
considerable pain in the skin next to the bands. He still walked 
very carefully, but he had learned to do it at normal speed without 
hurting himself. He felt OK, all signs of nausea and fever had gone 
away during the first day. 

On monday they would have sports class, so the locker room problem 
had to be taken care of. Peter feared that Bertrand could show 
signs of astonishment and give away their secret instead of 
shielding him, so he thought it better to show his friend what the 
situation was. When he asked Bertrand if he would bike out with him 
on saturday, the other boy just asked 'Can you?'   As Peter assured 
that he could (even if he wasn't sure himself!), they agreed on a 
trip to their lakeside place.  It was indeed a bit hard for Peter 
to ride his bike. Holding his legs together, it just pulled too 
much. Spreading his legs, the pants pulled the banded bag down, 
which wasn't so much better.  It was a slight torture, and when the 
boys had arrived at the lake and made sure no one else was nearby, 
Peter quickly took off his pants and underwear to let his 
mistreated crotch cool off and relax. The stretched skin was 
reddened by all that pulling. Bertrand had a look and quickly 
turned away. 'Eeeeeks, that's disgusting!!!'  Peter smiled. 'Yes, I 
know I'm a disgusting guy!' Bertrand looked back at him. 'No, not 
you, your balls are disgusting! Why don't you just cut them off?  
You don't feel anything, do you?' Now the scientist in Peter came 
through. 'If I did that, I would be risking infection of the wound. 
And the rubber bands would come off, I may bleed to death. Do you 
want that?' Bertrand assured his friend that he didn't want it, and 
then quickly undressed, climbed a tree that hung over the water, 
and did an elegant jump into the lake. Peter wished he had a camera 
to take a picture of his sleek friend doing that splash! It was 
pure aesthetic enjoyment. Bertrand came out of the water, shooking 
his head and sending droplets whirling all over the place. 'Come, 
you lazy guy, refresh your black nuts!' and he climbed the tree and 
jumped in again. Peter was in doubt. Should he risk it? His balls 
were supposed to dry out. On the other hand, he still was showering 
every day, what wrong could one more bath do? He got off his shirt 
and socks, and slowly walked into the lake. Bertrand came close and 
started splashing water all over Peter. 'Come on, get in, you are 
behaving just like my grandma!' That was enough. Peter dived into 
the lake, grasped his friend by the feet and turned him over, head 
under water. He let him go, and Bertrand emerged, coughing out some 
water but laughing. A wild waterfight started, after which the two 
boys went out swimming far into the lake. Peter thorougly enjoyed 
it. It was the first time since he banded himself, that he really 
did not feel anything hurting him! It all floated weightlessly 
around.
The friends slowly swam back, quite tired from the long stretch. 
Once at
the beach, Bertrand lay belly-down in the grass, while Peter sat 
down
with a sour smile. There was no belly-down lieing for him today! 

-----ooooo-----     


The evening of the painting exhibitions's opening came. "Friday 
Afternoons" was well chosen, indeed this was friday! Well, it was 
the evening, not the afternoon, but who cares... Peter felt weird 
in his choirboy robe, after all he wasn't a real boy anymore. Or 
was he? Hard question! He didn't know how to solve this dilemma. 
But what he DID know was that his crotch was itching like crazy. 
The itching seemed to be located inside the rubber bands. Probably 
some dead skin together with living skin was causing it. He wanted 
so much to remove the bands and really scratch himself there, 
but... if some toxins came up and infected his body? So he kept the 
bands on and waited for mother nature to decide what would happen. 
His bag was already whitish, and felt like cardboard. He tried to 
free his mind of it now and concentrate on the music he was about 
to perform. 

A bench had been set up next to the piano. The six choir boys would 
sing from up there, as there was no real stage in the room. It was 
rather silent, white-haired men in smoking and old ladies in much 
too open dresses were doing small talk, drinking wine, and duly 
admiring the paintings, which didn't look great at all to Peter. 
Some funny lines, a few splashes of color, he could have done 
several of them in an hour. Probably the artist got heavy money for 
them. Oh well! 

The function was about to begin. An old man with white hair, 
dressed in a black smoking, talked about the artist, the paintings, 
the marvelous inspiration the master needed to do them, the great 
honor for the city to host the exhibition, and so forth. Peter was 
bored, his crotch was itching. Sometimes he almost laughed out when 
the old man said something especially stupid. Then the guy 
introduced Mr.Holtmann and the boys, regarding them as the best 
treble soloists of that famous school that had done so much for 
arts. So much for it. Peter tried to get away from the boredom and 
engage in music mode. Fortunately "Friday Afternoons" started with 
a choir , good to warm up and get in mood. Mr.Holtmann had taken 
care of warning the audience that they should please not applaud 
before it was all over, a very necessary caution for these people, 
most of whom hadn't much idea about serious music. So from the 
choral start they could proceed uninterrupted to Bertrands first 
solo, which he delivered with his charming sweet voice, maintaining 
intonation throughout. Well done. That was his best friend! He 
COULD sing! The next piece was also Bertrand's, with the chamber 
choir cuckooing in the background. Bertrands voice was made for 
this! The last cuckoo ended, you could have heard a hair falling. A 
delight! The six boys sang the next piece, with a rather tragic 
text about a poor fox who was shot for his misdoings. Then came 
Bertrand again with a slow and moving solo. Mr.Holtmann barely 
touched the piano keys, this was Bertrand alone! The audience sat 
still, the silly paintings were forgotten, the singing dominated 
the room! The next piece, "I mun be marry by sunday". Peter smiled 
as he sang it. Not me! There is no marrying for
me. Strange coincidence! Then it was Peter's turn with a quick and 
short solo, followed by a slower and more intense one which he 
delivered artfully. Apparently the audience didn't expect such a 
voice here! The looks on their faces pushed Peter to sing even 
better! He stretched the last stanza, then came to a faster end. 

The next, very slow and moving piece was Bertrand's again. Peter 
knew he did sing well, and had a bigger voice than his friend, but 
for this kind of music the soft and sweet sound of his friend 
simply was better suited! Could such a voice be preserved? Probably 
not. Only a young boy could sing that way.  The full chamber choir 
sang the next short piece in unison, then came that nice song in 
which all of the boys had their small solos. For some of the sixth 
graders it was their first one! Even if short, it still counted! 
And then came the last part, a very slow choir piece, set in dark 
mood, that showed again how Benjamin Britten was able to touch the 
audience with such simple music. Peter could see tears rolling out 
of some eyes, and this was supposed to be an audience without much 
musical knowledge!
 
The boys put dramatism into their singing, and the teacher 
underscored it on the piano. The last piano notes died into 
pianissimo, the boys voices vanished into the silence. Silence. 
Several seconds of pure silence. And then the audience exploded in 
cheers, applauding like crazy! The boys stood there on the bench, 
like in trance, the last notes could still be heard, standing in 
the air in spite of the applause. Mr.Holtmann raised from the piano 
stool, bowed, turned over to his boys, and gave them the sign to 
bow too. And then it happened! The bench toppled over, sending the 
six boys flying onto the piano and the floor! Some ladies shrieked, 
several people came to help the boys back on their feet. Most of 
them laughed, Jimmy made a sour face, as he had a bloody knee. The 
piano had been too hard. But Peter put great effort into 
controlling himself. He had fallen onto the piano too, and had a 
sharp pain in his crotch. It stung intensively. The teacher looked 
over his gang and saw that Peter was in trouble. 'Are you 
hurt'?   'I don't think so', answered Peter, 'but it aches a lot. I 
got the edge of the piano into my chest. I will go to the bathroom 
to check it out.' Bertrand quickly offered: 'I go with you, Peter, 
so Mr.Holtmann can do his diplomatic duties here!' The teacher 
smiled thankfully, and the friends went off. In the bathroom they 
were alone, and Bertrand said boldly 'Now let's see what happened 
to your CHEST!'  Peter had to smile despite the pain, took off his 
choirboy robe and lowered his pants. 'Shit!' the two boys exclamed 
almost in unison. Peter's underwear was bloody! He carefully 
removed it.
 
There things seemed a bit less terrible. His dead ballbag had torn 
loose on the backside, leaving a small wound. Some of the rubber 
bands had slid into the wound. Peter picked them out and placed 
them on top of the others. He had to do quite some contortions to 
do this. The area was very sore, but it had already stopped 
bleeding. Bertrand prepared some thick cushions of toilet paper, 
and Peter carefully installed them in his blood- stained underwear. 
Very carefully he pulled his pants up and the robe on. It still 
hurt, but the situation was under control. The boys went back to 
the exhibition room.

On the way back home some of the rubber bands again slid into the 
wound. But the pain was not really intense. Peter figured that he 
would have to put up with this from now on. Despite his concern 
about some blood leaking through, he tried to act normally, but he 
moved around very carefully to avoid another such rip. He quickly 
went to the bathroom after dinner, discarded the bloody packet of 
toilet paper and examined the situation. The wound was closed, and 
his dead appendage was somewhat smelly. Even if most of it was 
still firmly attached, Peter considered his options for cutting it 
away now. But then the rubber bands would come off. Had the area 
sealed enough already to risk this? He really desired to finally 
part with his dead balls, but he didn't want to take any risks. And 
would he be able to do the cutting on himself? He didn't know. Or 
would Bertrand be able to help him? For the moment, Peter took a 
rather short shower, and went to bed. He hid his bloody underwear. 
He would throw it away at a safe place tomorrow. If he was lucky, 
mom wouldn't notice that he now had one
less underpants, but of course she would have noticed the bloody 
thing in the laundry!

Peter lay awake for some time. What a day! The satisfaction of 
getting the people to attend to good music instead of bad 
paintings, the revelation of Bertrand's voice for Britten's music, 
and then the start of the end of his procedure!  He slipped his 
hands into the pyjama and felt around his bag. It was hard like a 
knot of papmache. The skin upwards of the banding felt quite 
normal, and the rubber was there like it had since applying it. He 
again pulled back the rubber bands that had slid into the wound. 
Then he very carefully felt around the wound. A thin crust had 
formed on it. It was on its way to heal, so much was clear. He 
tried to slid a finger between the rubber bands and his skin. He 
could do it just a little bit, as the bands were so thight. But it 
felt like all the tissue inside the bands was alive, and the dead 
skin started just outside. It was hard to tell, though.

Suddenly it struck him: He hadn't gotten the shits today, despite 
the concert at the exhibition! Was it because that was no 'real' 
concert? Or because the real star with most solos had been 
Bertrand, not him? Or was he finally getting rid of his problem? 
Whatever it may have been, it was really nice to able to go sing in 
public without that shitty feeling!


-----ooooo-----


The year was nearing its end. That always meant more work... In 
addition to the usual concerts with their known repertoire, the 
continuation of the Schütz recording, and several additional 
recordings of "Friday Afternoons" and other works that were already 
known to them, Mr.Holtmann had planned a series of christmas 
concerts. That kind of music had in all times been a favorite of 
boy choirs. Most songs were the very traditional ones, well known 
to the boys, but a few had to be rehearsed quite a lot. The teacher 
had written some arrangements of "The twelve days of Christmas" and 
similiar pieces, specially tailored to the capabilities of several 
of his singers. Peter's voice had been developing great power 
lately, and he was able not only to sing comfortably in the heights 
of the famed high C, but even considerably higher. Mr.Holtmann made 
good use of this and wrote some parts for Peter that went up right 
to the F above!  Peter tried it. It needed some effort, but was 
well possible! He was duly proud of it. He was also gaining 
strength in singing the lowest notes of his range, and that put him 
in the enviable situation of being able to sing nicely over almost 
three octaves! Most boys could do barely two, some even less. 
Despite this, his voice was a genuine treble. While he could reach 
most of the alto register, he still sounded better in the highs. As 
Robert, the star alto soloist for two years, had finally had to 
quit, Mr.Holtmann had choosen three boys from the sixth grade, who 
had nice alto voices and showed potential to develop enough 
strength for solo singing. It was funny: All three of them were 
skinny guys rather tall for their age. Apparently the voice type 
had a lot to do with physical constitution! All three of them tried 
hard to do a good job, as they knew very well that only one would 
be choosen for the important solo roles!

Peter had almost stopped caring about his operation. His ballbag 
had stabilized its color and had shrunk a lot, transforming into a 
small hard lump. It didn't need much space anymore, and was slowly 
separating from his body, as the rubber bands pulled into the slit 
that was forming. Sometimes, when he made a sudden move, the skin 
would rip a little bit, hurt a little bit, and let some blood out, 
so Peter always put a small pack of toilet paper there to avoid 
having to discard more underpants. He was not biking now, but he 
hoped to restart it soon! Bertrand sometimes asked him how things 
were going, but Peter's good mood made it clear that all was well. 
It had been about six weeks since he did that crazy thing. The 
rehearsals, concerts, and to his dismay also a lot of school work 
left him little time to think about it.

-----ooooo-----
          

It was three days before christmas, when Peter woke up feeling 
something wet between his legs. It was rather late in the morning, 
mom had let him sleep since there was no school now, just the choir 
rehearsals in the early afternoon, and concerts or recording 
sessions almost every evening. Peter sat up on the bed, and noticed 
that he didn't feel the accustomed lump between his legs! He got 
out of his pyjama, and saw his ballbag hanging from a very thin 
piece of skin connecting it to his penis, everything else had 
separated! The dozen rubber bands were loosely wrapped around this, 
forming a ratsnest over the newly forming skin. Now had come the 
moment. He could not possibly walk around with this!  With some 
fear and lots of expectation he put back on his pyjama pants and 
went into the bathroom, discreetly holding his bag. It hurt if he 
just let it hang. He locked the door, and got out of the pyjama. He 
located a pair of small scissor intended to cut fingernails. His 
mother also kept a bottle of denatured alcohol in the bathroom. 
Peter filled the cup of the bottle with alcohol, dipped the tip of 
the scissors in and leaned them against the bottle, and then sat on 
the border of the bathtub. He removed the rubber bands, one by one, 
turn by turn. They were like glued together after all that time. 
So, there it was. A pink wound, oozing small amounts of clear 
liquid. The tissue was swollen and a bit tender, but nothing 
terrible. At the frontmost edge his bag was still attached by a 
strip of skin that was light brown, leathery and dry. The live skin 
was intensively reddened wher it met the strip. Peter took the 
scissors out of the alcohol. He took a deep breath. He grasped the 
dead skin. His heart was beating like crazy. He cut through the 
skin. It was really dead, he didn't feel anything there. Even if it 
was so long expected, it still was somewhat of a shock to see his 
balls completely detached! He quickly threw the bag into the 
toilet. Splash! That was it! He was now, at last, a real, complete 
castrato, without any doubt! He remembered that sentence he had 
read in the internet: "Our time is ripe for a revival of the 
castrati tradition!"  Here I am, he thought, ready to start that 
revival!

Peter now made a padding from toilet paper, moistened it with 
alcohol and pressed it quickly onto his wound. OUCH!!! He shouldn't 
have done that! The pain was so intense that he almost cried! He 
threw the pad into the toiled, and grinned. At least all bad 
microorganisms who may have been there had felt that same pain! It 
burned like fire. After a while, he got up, closed and stored the 
alcohol bottle, rinsed the scissors just in case, and looked into 
the toilet. There was his darkened shrunken bag, the dried contents 
still inside, floating between some wads of disintegrating toilet 
paper. He pissed onto it, and flushed the toilet. Strange, it had 
been so easy... Just some rubber bands and six weeks of time! He 
slipped back into his pyjama, picked up the twelve rubber bands, 
and washed them. After all, they were still good and could be used 
to hold together many more ship models while the glue settled! He 
returned to his room, stored the bands in his junk box, and went 
into the bed again, where he duly savored his victory. 

When Peter later dressed, and went down the stairs for breakfast, 
he was amazed at how light and easy he felt! The banded bag had 
been quite uncomfortable, after all. Now it was like when he had 
been a small boy, he didn't feel anything between his legs! He 
could clap them together without trapping anything! It was a most 
refreshing sensation. 

In the afternoon he went to the school for the now daily choir 
rehearsal, and when he met Bertrand, his friend immediately noticed 
that Peter was beaming all over his face. 'Good news?' Bertrand 
asked. 'Victory!' Peter answered. They shook hands. The other boys 
around had no idea what it was all about. Peter smiled thinking 
about what they would say if they knew...

After the rehearsal the boys went home, to take a break before the 
evening. They would give the christmas concerto in the City Hall. A 
dozen christmas carols, some of them in Mr.Holtmann's arrangements, 
sung by the boy choir alone, followed by choral excerpts from 
Bach's Christmas Oratorium, in which the full school choir would be 
on the stage, including the older students. Peter was expecting his 
usual nausea and quick-shit, but nothing happened. The only 
explanation he found this time was that the success of his plan was 
so much more important than this one concert, that his mind didn't 
communicate the situation to his guts. So much the better!  And he 
would have to sing his most difficult part this evening, as 
Mr.Holtmann's arrangements required all he could do!  Well, he 
would show them just WHAT he could do with his voice!  He felt 
right in the just mood for it!

And so he did. Together with Bertrand, he delivered a hair-rising 
performance of Holtmann's version of "Silent Night". He did not 
sing it loudly, as he would have overpowered Bertrand, who sang the 
main melody line while Peter put in the countersoprano composed by 
the teacher. Holtmann really knew what Peter could sing, and the 
boy did it. The audience sat frozen, at first refusing to believe 
what they were hearing! This was a first! Most of the people went 
at least to every year's christmas concert, many were more 
knowledgeable about music, but they had never heard such a voice, 
such an intensity at those heights, without being overly loud! The 
applause after this simple song was deafening.

Also remarkable was the rendering of "The twelve days of 
Christmas". Here twelve boys had solos, interspersed with the full 
boy choir. The teacher had chosen the soloists carefully, producing 
a contrasty, colorful sound webbing that raised cheers. After some 
lesser and well known carols came the austrian song where Peter 
could let loose against the choir, putting in some highly adorned, 
intense passages, where he took the freedom to depart considerably 
from Mr.Holtmanns composition. He did it masterfully. This was HIS 
concert, on this day! At the end, where he should fold from a G 
into the high C for the closing chord, he had the idea that he 
could do better than that, and while the trebles in the choir 
closed with the high C, he folded over a whole octave up, 
complementing the chord with the G above! That note, sung sharp 
like a knife and clean as only a boy could do it, had never been 
heard before in this room! Mr.Holtmann had the choir stretch the 
chord, and do a decrescendo into nil, and that tone still seemed 
present, standing in the room, clean and pure and impossibly high! 
While the audience applauded madly, and the curtain came down, 
Mr.Holtmann did a few paces towards Peter, and embraced him. Peter 
saw tears in the eyes of the old teacher. He hadn't expected to be 
able to impress him this
much, and it felt awkward to be treated in that way in front of the 
rest of the boys. But he accepted it as a compliment, and the other 
boys made no fuss about it either. 
          
The second half of the concert, the Bach chorals sung by the full 
choir, was solid, but stayed withing usual margins. Peter thought 
it was unfair to choose this order. The best should come last, and 
that was him singing Mr.Holtmann's arrangements... However, after 
the concert he met with his parents and sister, who had all 
attended, and had to again endure compliments. Mom congratulated 
him like she always did, but his father had noticed how special 
this performance had been, and expressed it. He then brought Peter 
back to reality when he said, smiling, 'enjoy while you can, that 
voice will not last for long!' Peter didn't answer. He was 
cheating. His parents had no idea of what he had done! When would 
they find out? Hopefully not too soon.  
 
-----ooooo-----


It was now january. The fall had been so warm, but now it was much 
too cold to go skinny dipping with Bertrand. They had spent the 
weeks without school biking around the wider area, building ship 
models, trying them out in the lake at their secret place, 
chatting, and singing just for the fun of it. Bertrand was now 
twelve years old too, his birthday was january 1st. What a crazy 
date to be born! His mother had spent new year's eve in the clinic 
twelve years ago... that had been still in France. Peter thought of 
his younger friend. Just a few months difference in age, but he was 
so innocent!  Bertrand had asked Peter to see his scar, and Peter 
had been pleased to comply. His friend had just said 'So you didn't 
need my help after all!'  Peter had assured him that Bertrands help 
in the locker room had been crucial and would continue to be so. In 
fact, Bertrand had developed a reflex for shielding Peter from 
astray looks while the castrato slipped into the most remote shower 
cabin after sports class. Perhaps someone noticed Bertrands 
closeness to Peter, but after all they were best friends, and 
everyone knew it. His classmates were not yet of an age to make 
stories out of it.
 
School had restarted. The Schütz recordings were still not 
finished, when Mr.Holtmann came with good news: The full choir, 
together with the school orchestra, would perform Händel's Messiah 
five months from now!  If all went well, they would do a major trip 
to several cities, performing the work. It would be a mayor 
undertaking, considering that there were almost a hundred players 
and singers participating! It also would be a whole lot of work to 
rehearse this two-hour-long masterpiece! The teacher announced who 
he was thinking off for the solo parts. He mentioned two quite good 
bass singers from the last grade, who would be leaving the school 
shortly after the concerts. One tenor was from the last grade too, 
the other one year younger. Peter knew that guy, he sang very well 
but had an impossible character. For the alto solos, Mr. Holtmann 
nominated two of the three boys he had selected some weeks earlier. 
They beamed while the third one was close to letting tears flow. 
Then he announced the selected trebles: Bertrand and Jimmy. Jimmy!  
Yes, Jimmy! The old man had choosen that small boy with his small 
voice, instead of him, Peter!  Peter felt cold sweat running down 
his back. That wasn't possible!  Jimmy instead of him! The teacher 
was pushing him out of his role! What had he done to deserve 
this??? Not getting a solo in the Messiah? 

When the rehearsal was over, and the boys left, Peter waited 
outside the room. When Bertrand came by, he grabbed Peter around 
the shoulder and tried to pull him away. But Peter resisted. 'Go 
down with them, I have to talk to Mr.Holtmann.' Bertrand's face 
lighted up. 'Good luck, buddy! If you have any trouble with this, 
just tell me and I will refuse to sing!' He left in a hurry. Peter 
was again surprised by Bertrand. That's a real friend! He would 
risk being thrown out of his solos, just to help him!  

The room had emptied, and the teacher was alone picking up his 
sheet music. Peter walked in and started to help putting the papers 
in order. The teacher looked at him, 'What's up, Peter? You have 
some problem?' Peter was close to breaking into tears, but 
controlled himself. 'Mr.Holtmann, I want to sing the Messiah. 
Nothing against Jimmy, but he's too young for this! He could sing 
it, be he cannot interprete it! You KNOW I would do that much 
better! Why did you throw me into the trashcan?' Now he could not 
avoid tears seeping out. The teacher reached for his handkerchief 
and dried off the boy's cheeks. He grasped a chair and pushed Peter 
into it, went for another chair and sat down.

'Peter, I know that as well as you do. But there is a big problem. 
If the concerts were to take place next week, rest assured that YOU 
would have been the soloist. But they are half a year from now.' He 
paused. 'You won't have your treble voice by that time.'   Peter 
was confused for a moment. He had so much grown into his new 
situation, that he had totally forgotten that the teacher had no 
idea about it! The world looked much better now!  'Mr.Holtmann, I 
can assure you that I will still be singing treble by then! 
Absolutely!'  The teacher smiled. 'I appreciate your eagerness, 
Peter, but trust me. I have been conducting boy choirs for over 
thirty years now. I know how boy's voices develop over time. You 
are at your best now, but three or four months from now your voice 
will break. You are thirteen years old now, aren't you? And you are 
almost as tall as I am!'  'I'm still twelve. And I CAN sing the 
Messiah six months from now, or seven or eight!' Peter was almost 
angry now. But the old teacher didn't give in so easily. 'Peter, 
many boys your age think they can control their voices. But believe 
me, suddenly you notice some trouble, and a few weeks later you 
can't sing at all! Just see what happened to Robert. He is a real 
hero, he fighted incredibly hard, but at the end he had to give up! 
I lost him for the Schütz recording, and you know that is my pet 
project.' He smiled. 'I would like to complete the recording before 
loosing you too, that's why I want you to concentrate on it instead 
of loosing your time learning the Messiah, only to get your voice 
broken a few weeks before the concerts!'

Peter sat silent. How could he convince this bold old man? Would he 
have to ask Bertrand for help? It seemed unfair, after all the 
teacher had no bad intentions. Or should he tell Mr.Holtmann that 
he had castrated himself? SHOW it to him if necessary?  No, no 
way...! He slowly said: 'I propose the following. I will do all 
Schütz recordings you ask me to. You know I love the Little Sacred 
Concertos too. But you give me the Messiah scores. I will learn it 
in my spare time while you teach little Jimmy. And if by the time 
the concerts start I still have my voice unbroken, I sing it, and 
Jimmy has to wait for the next opportunity in one or two years, 
when he can do it better than now. It's a deal?' The teacher 
laughed. 'Dear Peter, you deserve a monument for stubbornness! But 
yes, it's a deal! And let's hope for the best!' Peter leaped up 
from the chair. 'Great! Thanks, Mr.Holtmann!' And off he went like 
a freshly oiled lightning bolt, to tell Bertrand the good news! As 
he had expected, his friend was waiting down the stairs.
            
-----ooooo-----

The months went by. The Schütz recording was completed, on three 
CDs. Peter had told Jimmy about his deal with Mr.Holtmann, making 
it very clear that he WOULD sing the Messiah and Jimmy should be 
thinking about a performance next year or so. After all, once the 
choir had the Messiah in their repertoire, it surely would be 
reinstated at some later date. Peter had learned the Messiah solos 
at home, doing a very serious job that delighted his parents but 
pissed of his little sister. 'All day long this stupid guy is 
blaring the same songs!' she complained. 

Lots of secret bike tours were enjoyed, the friends ventured out on 
highways and tested how far they could get between lunch and dinner 
time. But often they went just to the lake and had model ship races 
(Peter used an electric motor with a NiCad battery, while Bertrand 
played the traditionalist with a little steam engine inherited from 
his grandpa). In may it finally got warm enough again to skinny dip 
in the lake. It had rained the day before, and now the sun was 
shining hot while the forest was steamy. It was the kind of weather 
Peter's mother considered dangerous for the health, but Peter 
didn't buy that. The boys arrived at their lakeside place in the 
early afternoon, sweaty from the hard trek on their mountain bikes 
over the morasty forest path. There was no doubt that this day mas 
made for swimming! Peter leaned his bike against a tree, peeled his 
tall and slender body out of the clothes, and climbed that old tree 
that overhung the water. He had grown a lot over the last months. 
He sat on the branch waiting for Bertrand, who was quick to follow. 
While Bertrand climbed up, he shouted 'Jump off, the branch won't 
carry both of us!' and Peter laughed 'Don't be a chicken! If it 
doesn't, we just will be in the water a little bit quicker!' and 
Bertrand came fully up, sitting down facing his friend. Peter 
started swinging the branch, still laughing, until Bertrand said 
with a comically serious face "You bad guy, don't destroy our nice 
tree, it should serve us for many years to come!' and jumped off. 
His splash was quickly followed by that of Peter, who had lost 
balance when Bertrand jumped off. The boys surfaced, laughing, and 
opened their bathing season with a deft water- battle. Shortly 
later they exited the still chilly lake and lay belly down in the 
damp grass, enjoying the sun on their nude bodies for the first 
time in the year.

It was so nice to lie there! The birds sung louder than ever, 
nature was overflowing with life, full of green, the sun was nice, 
the world was good, life was fine. The boys lay silent and enjoyed 
it all.

After some time, Bertrand spoke. 'Peter, I think I'm ready for it.' 
Peter rolled over, to let the sun warm his underchilled 
belly. 'Ready for what?'   Bertrand hinted: 'For the great 
event.'  'You mean the Messiah?  Of course you are ready for it, 
and you HAVE to be ready. The first performance is next 
week!'  'No, dummy,' said Bertrand and boxed his friend in the 
ribs, 'I don't mean THAT!'    Peter lazily turned his head and saw 
a strange expression on Bertrand's face. 'So, what DO you mean?' He 
was quite puzzled. Bertrand said in a very low voice: 'I want to 
follow your footsteps. Become a castrato.' 
 
Now that was a surprise! Peter had never expected anyone else to 
take the same decision he had taken, much less his best friend! In 
fact, lately he hadn't been thinking at all about his self-
castration, somehow that lay in the distant past and was an 
established fact, not worth loosing thoughts on it. He felt a bit 
guilty. Was he seducing his friend into a very special life that 
would perhaps not be the best for him? But on the other hand, could 
there be a better life for a full-hearted boy singer? A specialist 
had stated: "Our time is ripe for a revival of the castrati 
tradition!" There must be a bright future not only for him, but 
also for Bertrand, if he finally chose that way, and for many 
others too! After all, Bertrand's voice had become much brighter, 
much more intense over the last months, and lost much of its small-
boy sweetness. It sure made sense to preserve it...
 
'You are speechless?' Bertrand grinned as he turned on his back, as 
he also felt the cold from the wet grass in his belly. 'I have 
already decided, so don't try to talk me out of it. There should be 
room for both of us on the stages, and we may go on singing 
together as in the Little Sacred Concertos, the Messiah and all 
those other works! 

Peter looked over his friend's body. Bertrand had started the 
growth spurt, and was tall and thin, although not nearly as tall as 
himself. Bertrands genitals looked still pretty much like a small 
boy's ones, even if he was quite over twelve years old by now. 
Peter grinned as he compared them to his own penis. They were 
almost alike, but as Peter was much taller, his seemed small in 
comparison. And there was nothing behind it... Peter liked his body 
as it was, he had no complexes about it. But his friend didn't look 
bad either, just those two things there in the wrinkly bag, 
contracted from the cold water, looked like a threat of bad things 
to come. 
 
'Will you never again speak to me? Or are you sleeping with wide 
open eyes?' Bertrand again boxed into his friend's ribs. 'Will you 
help me?'

Peter slowly came back from his mental trip. 'If you are that sure, 
count on me. But I really didn't expect that you would take this 
step! I thought I was the only one crazy enough to do such a 
thing!' He paused. Then he grinned broadly and said: 'I still have 
my dear twelve rubber bands. Do you want them?' But Bertrand's face 
darkened and he said: 'I would not like that way of doing it. Your 
bag looked terrible. It must have been very uncomfortable to walk 
around with that dead thing for weeks.' 'ThingS', corrected Peter, 
smiling. Bertrand again boxed him in the ribs as he continued:'And 
the accident at the exhibition, that was nasty!  No, I prefer some 
cleaner way to do it.'  Peter grinned again as he asked in the most 
innocent voice he could produce: 'Does your mother still have her 
kitchen knife, of THIS SIZE?' and he made the same gesture Bertrand 
had made months earlier when offering it... Bertrand laughed. 'Sure 
she does, but try not to cut my legs off with that instrument, at 
least not both of them!'  Then he went serious again. 'Could you do 
such a job?' Peter thought a while. Then he replied 'I'm not a 
surgeon. And that's surgery. I would most probably kill you.' The 
friends lay silent on their backs. The spring sun tanned their 
nakedness. 

Suddenly Peter said, mimmicking their math teacher: 'Dear Bertrand, 
did you do your homework?'  Bertrand looked up without 
understanding.  'I mean, have you read about castration, what 
effects it produces, and how it can be done?' Bertrand shook his 
head. 'No, dear teacher, please tell me!' he said, imitating the 
voice of a first grader. Peter laughed a bright laugh, and started 
to teach: 'I can grab your dear mom's big kitchen knife and slice 
your things off in one cut. Many hundred years ago that was done to 
some slaves. Half of them died from blood loss, most of the rest 
from infection.'  Bertrand just said "I pass. Go on.'  Peter went 
on. 'You may prefer the traditional method used by italian castrati 
schools. I can do that for you. It's bloodless and quite safe.' 
Bertrand looked up, as Peter continued: 'You sit in the bathtub in 
hot water, so your bag gets nicely loose and soft, then I use my 
father's vise to crush your balls to juice.' Peter quickly grasped 
one of Bertrands balls and compressed it moderately. Bertrand 
yelled loud. 'That's for boxing me in the ribs all the time! We are 
even!' Peter laughed. Bertrand caressed his mistreated ball. 'You 
bastard! That's good for many more hits in the ribs!' And he gave 
his friend another knock. 'But... did they REALLY do that?'  'Sure 
they did!' answered Peter, 'And the boys survived it quite well. 
Apparently no one cared if it hurt them. They must have remembered 
it for life... But perhaps they drugged the boys, after all they 
had opium, and lots of wine! Bertrand, that's an idea!  Drink out 
your father's whiskey, add the Cognac if necessary, and I can apply 
that treatment to you while you are as drunk as Mr.Brown on monday 
morning!' The reference to the school factotum, well known for his 
weekend excesses, was quite funny, but Bertrand was impatient: 'Go 
on, go on, professor of the brutal crafts!' Peter continued. He 
remembered very well the options available. 'You can spend your 
hard earned allowance on a Burdizzo tool. That's a big plier-like 
thing. I should be able to crush the cords of your balls with it. 
It surely hurts less than crushing the balls!'  Bertrand thought a 
moment, then he asked 'And what would happen with my balls?' 'They 
would dry up, or rot, inside your bag. That doesn't sound too good 
to me.'  'Neither to me. Go on.'  Peter meditated. 'Surgery again. 
Making a slit on each side of you bag, pulling your balls out. You 
can choose between having the chords torn off,' (Bertrand shivered 
as he heard this), 'or having them scraped through with a blade. 
You should not bleed too much, but it's a mess anyway. And it's 
very easy to get an infection.' Bertrand asked 'Couldn't you just 
cut off the chords cleanly? That would hurt much less, I 
suppose!'  'Sure,' answered Peter, 'but then you would bleed to 
death.'   Silence.    'Go on,' Bertrand said weakly.  'Sorry, there 
isn't much to go on. Use my rubber bands. A slow, but proven 
method.' Peter smiled. There was a long pause, each boy lost in his 
thinking. Bertrand commented after a while: 'And there go those 
silly adults, saying that a child's live is easy and void of 
trouble! As if they had never been young!  By the way, my left ball 
still hurts. I wish I could pay you back in the same money!' He 
grinned and boxed Peter again. After a pause he added: 'Peter, 
while I think it over, sharpen your surgery skills. And sharpen 
your Leatherman tool too!'

A tired smile was on Bertrands face.


-----ooooo-----


Next day at school came another problem Peter had totally forgotten 
to think about: The class teacher announced that today they would 
get their annual medical checkup with the school doctor. In the 
break before that difficult event Bertrand said to Peter: 'Well, I 
escaped trouble for this time. But what will YOU do?' Peter had 
been spending half of the history class thinking about a solution, 
and told Bertrand his plans. It should get him through, but they 
couldn't know the reaction the doctor would have. 

Peter was one of the first boys to be called into the examination 
room. He had to take his shirt off, and the doctor directed him to 
breathe, hold his breath, cough, and so on, while listening to his 
stethoscope. Peter could't keep from joking in such situations, and 
asked 'Is the music good, doc?' The doctor noticed that it was a 
joke, and answered: 'Oh yes, but the singing is a bit breathy! And 
the drumming is out of pace!' He smiled.  After the doctor looked 
into Peter's throat, he told him: 'Now please lower your pants.' 
This was the moment Peter feared. The years before, the doctor had 
always tried to pull back his foreskin. When Peter was small, it 
was impossible to do it, while in later years the doctor could do 
it, but it hurt somewhat. He had always told Peter to try it 
himself, because it had to loosen more. Last year the doc had found 
his foreskin quite OK, so Peter had hoped to escape this 
examination today. Not so. He had to apply his plan.

'I can't do that, doc.' The doctor raised his eyebrows. 'Why not, 
Peter? You don't need to be shy! I see many naked boys each day... 
I just need to check you for phimosis.' Peter went on with his 
plan. 'My religion doesn't allow me to let a stranger see my 
private parts.' Oh shit, this idea seemed cheesy now!  The doctor 
was not so easily convinced. 'Last year you had no such 
limitations! Are you new to that religion?' This was getting 
complicated. Peter improvised: 'No, but the rule isn't valid for 
children under twelve years. That's why I had no problem until last 
year. But I'm over twelve now, almost thirteen!'  The doctor cut 
the situation short: 'Well, I don't want to hurt your religious 
feelings. So just tell me: Can you retract your foreskin easily?'  
Peter blushed as he answered: 'Oh yes, I can, and I know I have to 
wash there.'  'Good,' the doctor said, and smiling, he added: 'You 
really don't need to be shy about it. You are entering puberty now 
and undergoing a lot of changes which are perfectly normal.' Peter 
had to supress a grin as he thought how wrong the doc was... He, 
entering puberty! The thought made him recover his wits, so when 
the doctor asked him to sit on the edge of the bench to check his 
knee reflex, Peter did what he always had done in that situation: 
He controlled himself, tried to keep his leg from jumping up when 
the doctor hit the knee with his small hammer, and then kicked up 
three seconds later. When the doctor threatened to hit him so hard 
that he couldn't suppress the reflex, he laughed and let things 
return to normal. 

After his own medical checkup Bertrand came to Peter quite 
excited. 'Peter, it's high time to go on with what we talked 
yesterday! The doctor told me I was entering puberty!' Peter 
answered sheepishly: 'He told me the same thing.' Bertrand looked 
at his friend, then both boys laughed. 'Really?' asked 
Bertrand, 'and that guy is a doctor...? Surely he pulled around at 
your dick and didn't look below it?'  Peter told Bertrand how he 
had hidden his situation from the doctor. 'Next year we will be two 
in that strange religion', chuckled Bertrand. 'But anyway, I want 
to do it soon. I'm almost twelve and a half years old...' He got 
serious. 'Peter, my parents will be away from home from friday 
morning to monday. I will be alone. My mother made quite a show 
about it, she thinks that I will set the house on fire, or that 
something bad can happen to me.' He looked into Peter's eyes. 'Will 
you do such a bad thing to me on friday afternoon? I could spent 
two days in bed, and no one would notice.'  Peter stared at his 
friend. Now that was courage! He searched for an excuse. 'I told 
you I'm no surgeon', he said vaguely. 'Peter, no one else will do 
it, and you promised to help me! Don't chicken out now! Yesterday 
you gave quite a speech about how to do it!'

'Explaining it is one thing, but DOING it is quite 
different!'  'You did it to yourself, and you had never done it 
before... So why not try surgery on your best friend? After all, 
that slicing and scraping method seems to be the best option to me! 
I would be up and fine for the Messiah next thursday!'  Peter still 
wasn't convinced. Could he do it? Wouldn't he throw up at the sight 
of blood? And what if something really bad happened? 

Bertrand spoke up again: 'I have planned it all. You do it to me at 
home. If all goes well, I stay in bed until sunday. If something 
happens, and there is danger, you call the emergency service and 
then you disappear, and I make them believe I did it myself. In 
that case I'm in for the funnyhouse, but you don't. It's a deal?'   
Peter was slow to reply: 'I have newer used a sewing needle in my 
life. Should I leave you open and bleeding? No good idea!'  But 
Bertrand had thought of everything: 'Just regard me as a model 
ship. I have a half full bottle of cyanoacrilate glue in on shelf. 
Don't sew me up, glue me together! It surely hurts less too!' That 
was a bright idea. Peter remembered just too clearly how well that 
stuff glued together the fingers if you weren't careful. 'OK. But 
what kind of anesthesia can we use? Your father's cognac?' Peter 
grinned. Bertrand said in a teacher's manner: 'Dear Peter, alcohol 
is not for children!' And seriously again: 'I think I just will 
take the pain.' 'Noooo,' exclamed Peter, 'that would drive you 
crazy!'  Bertrand just laughed. 'I AM crazy already! Didn't you 
notice? Can I get more crazy than this?' Peter laughed too. 'I 
don't think so!'  Bertrand commented: 'Regarding pain endurance, 
you made me practice a lot yesterday!' and he boxed his buddy in 
the ribs.
 
After the choir rehearsal that afternoon, the two friends went to 
Bertrand's home. His parents were not there, as they were preparing 
their trip, so the boys had freedom to surf the net in search for 
clear instructions. There wasn't much about castration of choir 
boys, much less clear instructions, but at least they found a lot 
of info, complete with photos, about the castration of farm 
animals. 'I will regard you as lamb', said Peter while they studied 
the screen. Bertrand became ever more silent while they went on. 
Peter had now a clear picture of what he had to do tomorrow. Be it 
for the best. 

-----ooooo-----

The next morning found Bertrand quite meditative on his 
schoolbench. One of the teachers noticed, and jokingly asked him if 
he was in love. Absend-minded, Bertrand nodded. 'In that case, 
please leave the love affair for after classes, and now PAY 
ATTENTION!' Bertrand agreed 'OK, I will leave it for the 
afternoon.' It was a good thing that the teacher didn't look at 
Peter at that moment. 

After class Peter just asked: 'Still sure?'  'Firmly', replied 
Bertrand. 'See you at 3 pm, and bring your tools!'  

Right after lunch Peter packed up. He took several of his model 
building tools, like long-noosed pliers, scissors, some short 
ropes, and of course his Leatherman tool. He packed his cyano glue 
too, just in case. You never know what you may need. He grabbed a 
large plastic trash bag from the kitchen, and stuffed everything 
into his backpack. He told mom he was going to help Bertrand with 
his newest model ship, and off he went on the bike. He passed by 
several pharmacies, buying a pair of latex surgical gloves, a roll 
of adhesive tape, a big pack of sterilized wadding, a bottle of no-
burn disinfectant (he remembered quite well how alcohol felt!), and 
a tube of wound cream. That should do. He bought each item at a 
different place, afraid that otherwise it could look suspicious. 
Then he biked to Bertrand's home. 

'You forgot the red cross sign!' Bertrand shouted, leaning out of 
the window. He laughed. 'Shhh', made Peter, while he rode up the 
driveway. Bertrand disappeared to open the door and let his friend 
in. 'Everything's ready?' he asked. 'Just need YOU to start!' Peter 
said. He was satisfied that his friend was in so good spirits, 
despite the fact that he was expecting what would probably be the 
most difficult moment in his life. Now he still could go back, a 
while later he would not be able to decide anymore.
 
Peter took control. 'Now you first go and take a good shower. Lots 
of soap, specially - you know where. Set the water as hot as you 
can endure. I will prepare things in the meantime.' Bertrand obeyed 
and went off. Peter pulled away the bedsheets from Bertrands bed, 
leaving just the mattress. He stuffed those things in the room's 
corner. In the closet he found a set of fresh sheets. He put one of 
them over the mattress, then extended the plastic trashbag over it, 
at the foot end of the bed. Should be enough to contain the mess, 
he thought. He pulled the bedside table nearby that end of the bed. 
Bertrands clock radio was removed, and the surface was wiped clean 
with a wadding swab moistened in disinfectant. Then Peter opened 
the Leatherman, choosing the serrated knife. He had never used that 
blade a lot, so it was still mighty sharp. He moistened another bit 
of wadding, and with it he cleaned the blade. He pulled Bertrands 
trashcan next to the table. There were still discarded wood 
splinters in there, from his friend's latest ship. He threw the 
used wadding in, and moistened another, bigger chunk in the 
disinfectant, wrapped it around the knife blade and put the tool on 
the table. He then repeated the same treatment to the other tools. 
He checked that the nozzle of the cyano glue bottle was unclogged, 
and placed the bottle on the table. Then he sat down and thought 
about what he had to do, while he waited for his friend and future 
colleague.
 
Peter was lost in his thoughts when Bertrand appeared, naked as the 
day he was born. He was pink from the hot water. 'Is it good, 
doctor?' asked Bertrand. Peter looked at his nude friend, and 
smiled. 'You almost boiled yourself!' 'You told me to use very hot 
water, doctor!'  'It's OK,' laughed Peter, 'just stop calling me a 
doctor! I'm a butcher at best!' He quickly repented from having 
said this, as he noticed that his friend was trembling slightly. 
Clearly he was worried, and was applying his wit to improve self-
control. Peter decided to make it as easy as possible for his 
friend. 

'Come and lie down here. Put your ass on the plastic, so we keep 
the bed clean.' Bertrand sat down on the plastic bag. 'Lie back.' 
He did so. Bertrand's feet were still on the floor. Peter got one 
of his ropes, gently pulled one of Bertrands legs to the side and 
tied his ankle to the bed post. Bertrand protested: 'Do you really 
need to tie me down? I will not run away!' Peter knew what he was 
doing. 'If I don't tie you down, you will kick the teeth out of my 
face, even if you don't want to!' Bertrand didn't answer. Peter 
tied down his friend's other ankle, spreading his legs apart in a 
ninety degree angle. It was strange, they had been best friends for 
so long, had skinny dipped so many times together, but he had never 
seen his friend naked in such a position. Other boys often played 
doctor. He and Bertrand had never done this. Maybe because he WAS 
sort of a doctor...? Peter grinned. He went into the corner, 
grasped the thick blanket, folded it in six parts and put it over 
Bertrands belly. 'So you don't freeze', he said, but in fact it was 
to keep Bertrand from seeing what he was doing down there. Now 
Peter took a length of adhesive tape, and carefully taped his 
friend's penis up to the belly, out of the way. The tip of the 
foreskin was very convenient for this. He put a generous amount of 
wadding between Bertrands legs, to soak up the blood. Then he 
opened the sealed glove bag and put the gloves on.

'Ready to go?' he asked. 'Yes, doctor. If I scream too loud, just 
gag me', Bertrand pressed out. He was breathing heavily, and sweat 
was appearing on his skin. Peter took another bit of wadding. He 
felt awkward with those gloves on. He moistened it in disinfectant, 
and carefully stretched Bertrands scrotum while applying the 
disinfectant all over the area. 'Does it burn?' he asked. 'No, it 
just pulls.'  'That's me, you dummy, not the bugkiller!' Peter 
laughed. Bertrand also tried to laugh. He was breathing a bit 
easier now. 

The moment had come. Peter took the Leatherman tool and unwrapped 
the wadding from it. He grabbed Bertrands bag, pulled the skin 
taut, and pushed the tip of the knife in. Bertrand's body quivered, 
and a second later he said matter-of-factly: 'Ouch!'  'Is it too 
bad?' Peter asked. If Bertrand gives up now, it will be a 
problem!  'It hurts. But I can stand it.' Brave little Bertrand! 
Peter pulled the blade down a bit, completing the incision. 
Bertrands legs quivered again, and a muffled 'Mmmmhh' escaped his 
closed mouth. Peter tried to squeeze Bertrands left ball out of the 
slit, but there was something in between. He expected this, from 
what he had read in the internet, but anyway he had hoped it would 
be easier. He again grasped the end of the bag, pulled it straight, 
and pushed the knife tip into the incision. He couldn't see a thing 
there, because a lot of blood was covering the wound. Peter hadn't 
expected so much bleeding from the skin alone, and quietly he 
started to estimate how much blood his friend was loosing. If it 
approached about a cupful, he would call emergency. But fortunately 
this was still very much less, enough to block sight but no more. 
The membrane seemed to be tougher than the skin itself, Peter had 
to push a lot to get through. He cut a slit into that membrane too. 
The pointed Leatherman knife was really a fine tool for such 
purposes... He just had to be carefull not to get too deep in. Now 
he squeezed again, and as the incision opened wide, a whitish thing 
could be seen! He squeezed harder, the thing came through the slit, 
but pulled a lot of bloody mess behind it. 'Is it too bad?' Peter 
asked, while he grasped the testicle and let go the bag. The 
testicle tried to pull back in, but Peter held it. He cut some 
fibrous tissue that was pulling it in. There was no reaction from 
Bertrand other than his answer: 'It HURTS!' Now the testicle was 
looser. Peter pulled it, and saw that now only the cord was 
connecting it. The chord was much thicker than Peter had expected! 
He exposed as much as he could of it, which wasn't very much 
really, and started scraping it with the knife, from inside the 
wound down. Bertrands body twisted up as he did it, and the muffled 
sounds made it clear that this hurt a lot! Bertrand found his voice 
again: 'What are you doing now? I can feel it in my guts!' 'I'm 
doing the scraping. We almost have it!' He continued scraping, and 
Bertrand pressed his teeth together to avoid screaming. But he 
couldn't avoid quivering and twisting. The restrains were doing 
their job.

Finally the testicle was free in Peter's gloved left hand. 'We have 
it', he said. 'Let me see', demanded Bertrand. 'Later. Don't move 
now', was Peter's short answer. The remains of the cord had pulled 
back in. Blood was coming out of the wound. Not very much, but it 
just flowed. Should he leave it bleeding for a while? Hard 
question. Peter put the testicle into the trashcan. He hadn't 
thought of a better place. They would have to clean the can 
afterwards. Don't forget. 

It's time. Peter prepared another pad of wadding with disinfectant 
and wiped the blood away with it. 'That feels cold!' Bertrand 
said. 'Better than alcohol, I can assure you!' Peter was very sure 
of this. Now came the
precision work. He slightly pulled the skin into a position where 
the wound would be horizontal. He wiped the skin clean, and took 
the cyano bottle. He applied a very thin line of glue to the edge 
of the wound, and then joined the skin so that it came together in 
its natural position, keeping his gloved fingers away from the 
glue. The cyanoacrilate set in a matter of seconds. Peter waited 
some more time, then wiped over it with another swab of wadding 
impregnated in disinfectant. So, the path for infection was pretty 
much closed. If it wasn't in already, now it wouldn't get in 
easily. The cord and the inner layers of skin would have to care 
for themselves, but after all, the same was done with farm animals, 
and the italian castrati had much more than blood left in there 
after their castrations.
 
'How do you feel?' Peter asked. 'Weak.' The answer was indeed 
weak. 'One side is ready. Do you want a rest before doing the 
other?'  'No, go on right now. The faster it's over, the better.'  
Were all french boys so courageous?  Peter restarted the procedure 
on the other side. Bertrands reactions were lesser now. Either he 
was learning to control them, or he was too weak to put up a big 
show. Peter thought he almost could untie Bertrands legs without 
risks! But better stay safe.  Having the experience, this time he 
cut deep enough on the first try. Curiously, the left cord was much 
shorter than the right one, and he had to do the scraping almost 
completely inside the bag. Five minutes later, he had sealed that 
side too. He collected the wadding between his friend's legs, 
trying to estimate the amount of blood that had soaked into it. It 
didn't seem excessive. But more bleeding was happening inside 
Bertrands bag. He would have to monitor his friend. 

'Ready!' Peter said, stripped off the gloves and untieing Bertrands 
legs. 'Just in time', the poor guy whispered, 'I can't stand much 
more.' Peter was concerned. 'Cheer up, buddy, your voice is safe! 
Long live the new era of the castrati!' Bertrand smiled, and tried 
the start of his first Messiah solo, "There were shepherds". But 
laying back and with reduced blood pressure, he just was not up to 
it, and it sounded miserably. 'Shut up, you shepherd, and save your 
voice for thursday!' Peter applied some wound cream on Bertrands 
glued wounds, and taped cushions of wadding over them. 'Now slide 
up, very carefully!' he commanded. He lifted the blanket from 
Bertrand's belly and helped him get into a normal position on the 
bed. He then picked up the plastic bag, which was not even bloody, 
and made the bed over and around his friend. 'Try to relax while I 
clean up', he said. 'Let me see my balls', asked Bertrand. He bent 
over the bed edge to look into the trashcan Peter had brought 
close. 'Eeeeks', he said, when he saw the bloody mess. 'Yes, 
eeeks!' confirmed Peter and took the trashcan, tools and all to the 
bathroom. He fished out the severed parts, put them in the toilet, 
and flushed them away. How many more times would he do this in his 
life? He didn't like it at all, it was messy, ugly work. But if 
another boy wanted to keep his voice, and asked him for help... he 
would do it again! 

Peter discarded the used wadding via the toilet, in small amounts, 
to avoid clogging it. He washed the tools, including the supposedly 
discardable gloves. They could be useful for model building... He 
grinned. He had always been a cheapskate. But why sould he throw 
away things that had cost money and were still usable? 

He then went back to the bedroom, finding Bertrand more 
serene. 'Does it still hurt?'  'Yes... there... and here too.' 
Bertrand pointed to his stomach.
'Just keep still', Peter said. Bertrand did so. Moving around just 
hurt too
much. 

'What will we do with those bedsheets?' asked Bertrand after a 
while, pointing to the corner where they still were. 'Don't move!' 
commanded Peter. 'Tomorrow we will see that. I think we either wash 
them, or we put them back on and store those you are using now. I 
only put them on to avoid any germs in the used ones, but once your 
wounds are fully closed, it doesn't matter. If you don't piss or 
shit in your bed, we can just store these tomorrow.' Bertrand tried 
a grin. 'Maybe I do shit in. I feel damn sick.'  'That comes from 
the bleeding, and the tension. You know I used to feel sick when I 
had to sing! Tension alone can do it.' Peter grabbed his friend's 
hand and felt for the heartbeat. It was a little faster than his 
own, but not overly so. 'Andante con moto', he said. 'Should be 
OK.'  Bertrand laughed. But only for a moment. 'Ouch. Did you 
really cut off my balls, or did you just stuff them up in me? I can 
feel them here', and he put his hand over his abdomen. 'You saw 
them', said Peter. 'Keep still.' And he carefully pulled back the 
bedsheets, exposing his friend. 'Checkup time.' Bertrand's legs 
were slightly spread, as wide as the bed allowed. Peter was glad to 
see the boy's scrotum pretty much as he had left it. There was no 
more external bleeding. And it wasn't full of blood, as Peter had 
feared. Just the incision areas were swollen, but that should be 
normal. He covered up his friend again. 'All right', he said. 
Unless an infection started, this should work out well. 

Peter went down and inspected the kitchen. The fridge was well 
stuffed, and there was fruit, bread, lots of cheese of different 
kinds, and other goodies. Bertrand's parents had cared for his well-
being over the weekend. Peter grabbed a bottle of mineral water and 
a glass, and went up. 'You lost some blood. So you should drink 
more liquid than usual.' He poured water into the glass. 'No, 
wait.' He went down again, and after some searching he found a pack 
of straws. He took it up and placed a straw in the glass. 'So you 
don't have to get up for it.' And he helped his friend to drink it, 
in small amounts. When the glass was empty, he refilled it and 
placed it on the bedside table. 'Just feel free', he said. 

The first two hours went by. The boys daydreamed about the future. 
How nice it would be to sing together. Forever. But also: How they 
would tell their parents. Someday it had to happen. Life wasn't 
easy.

Peter offered Bertrand to prepare some food, but Bertrand felt too 
sick to eat much. 'Just bring me an orange, nicely peeled, will 
you? I feel I can only eat fresh things now.' Peter could 
understand this very well. It was the same sensation when he was 
feeling sick before a concert. He went down, peeled an orange, and 
brought it up, together with some spare ones. Bertrand very slowly 
ate it. 

It was getting late. Peter had to return home, otherwise mom would 
suspect. He would have loved to stay there for the night, caring 
for his friend, but it just was not possible. 'How do you feel? I 
have to leave soon.'  Bertrand knew this had to happen. 'I think 
I'm stable for the night. If something bad happens, I will call 
emergency. Try to get me out of the funnyhouse if that happens!' He 
made a crazy grimasse. Peter had to laugh. 'Tell them I did it, so 
we can share a room there', he joked, as he started to pack up his 
tools.  

'Peter?'   'What's up?'  'I still need some more help before you 
go.' What's the matter now, thought Peter. 'Sure, what do you 
need?'  'I have to pee. How can I do that now?'  Big problem. Peter 
asked: 'Do you think you can walk, or should I bring you something 
to pee in?'   'I think I can walk... slowly. That's not the 
problem.'  Strange, thought Peter. 'What else is it?' he 
asked. 'You still have my dick firmly taped to my belly, you bad 
guy! I don't want to pee in my face! Finish your work!'  Bertrand 
laughed as best he could, Peter also fell into laughter. If that 
was the problem! He had left the tape there to avoid stirring the 
wound. Now he lifted the bedsheets off, lifted the edge of the 
tape, held his friend's penis down and quickly ripped the tape 
off. 'Whaa', yelled Bertrand. 'Can't you do anything without 
hurting me?' 'Sorry, you asked for it. Better quick than slow, in 
this case! Now get up - SLOWLY.' And he helped Bertrand to his 
feet. His friend's face made it clear that it did hurt to walk. 
Peter escorted Bertrand to the bathroom, then left him to do his 
business alone. Bertrand was of the type of people who could not 
piss if someone watched.

Bertrand walked back without needing help. 'It still works', he 
said, grinning. 'Good to know', Peter gave back, 'that Leatherman 
is loooong, almost as long as your mother's kitchen knife! I could 
have cut your plumbing!' Bertrand slowly lay down, Peter had a last 
look at his wounds, and found everything as it should be. He left 
shortly later. It was starting to get dark. 

-----ooooo-----


Peter didn't get much sleep that night. How was his friend doing? 
Was he well? Was an infection starting? Did something force him to 
call emergency? Or... was he dying?  NOOO, don't think such a 
thing! He shouldn't have done that surgery. Surgery was for 
surgeons. Not for school boys. It was more than a game. The rubber 
bands, OK, that was easy and safe. But surgery isn't. Now he 
noticed that he didn't even put on some kind of mask. He could have 
infected his friend with his breath!  Peter rolled around in bed, 
plagued by those thoughts. It was 2 am before he finally slept. 

The next morning he left to see his friend right after breakfast. 
He grabbed his backpack with tools, just to make mom believe they 
were actually building a ship model. He pedaled as fast as he 
could. Bertrand had given him his keys, so Peter went in silently. 
He intended to go up to the bedroom to see how Bertrand was doing, 
but a bright voice called from the kitchen. That sounded good! 
Peter went there and found Bertrand standing in the kitchen, 
wearing just a shirt and nothing below, with a succulent breakfast 
before him. 'You look quite alive, I see! Ready to go on a bike 
tour?' Peter joked. Bertrand made a sour face. 'Don't even mention 
that word! Man, I can't sit down! I must stand all the 
time!' 'Sorry', said Peter, but that's part of the game! You are 
hungry, I see?' 'Oh sure, after eating just an orange since 
yesterday's breakfast...'  'What? You didn't have lunch 
yesterday?'  Bertrand looked helpless. 'I couldn't eat anything. I 
was just too nervous!' He laughed. Peter laughed too. He was so 
happy to see his friend rather well and in good mood! Peter watched 
as Bertrand stuffed himself full of bread, fruit, and lots of 
cheese. He was french, after all... When Bertrand was ready, Peter 
said: 'Now you be a good boy and go back to bed!' 'Will you keep me 
stored there all day long?' Bertrand complained in disbelief. 'Who 
knows', smiled Peter, 'but for the moment, take it easy.' While 
they went up the stairs, Bertrand spread his legs. He lay down on 
the bed, and Peter played doctor again and examined his friend. The 
wadding he had taped over Bertrands scrotum was still in place, but 
loose. He removed it, very slowly and carefully, to avoid tearing 
something open. 'You are learning to be more gentle!' commented 
Bertrand. The wounds looked very small on the shriveled skin. The 
swelling had gone back, but there still was some. And the colors! 
Yellow, brown, blue, violet, it was all there, even a greenish 
shade could be found!  'It would be fun to make a photo of this 
landscape!' Peter said. Bertrand offered him his father's digital 
camera, but that was an old black-and-white model. Not good for 
shooting colors...  But anyway, Peter fetched it, Bertrand showed 
him how to use it, and Peter shot a few photos. He then connected 
the camera to Bertrand's computer, switched it on and downloaded 
the photos. Bertrand gave the necessary instructions from the bed. 
When the pictures appeared on the screen, Bertrand had to laugh. He 
had never seen himself from that angle... Moreover, the camera had 
a wide angle lens, so the perspective was grossly distorted, and 
the slightly swollen scrotum looked bigger than Bertrands face! 
    
Peter zipped the image files, using a password on the zip file, so 
the pictures were safe from any inquisitive eyes. When he left for 
lunch hours later, he told his friend: 'Try to get dressed. 
Remember that on monday you have to go to school! You should 
practise walking in full dress!' Bertrand acknowledged, and Peter 
left. 

When he returned in the early afternoon, he found Bertrand again in 
the kitchen, still naked from the waist down. He grinned. 'Are you 
taking up a nudist lifestyle?' he asked.  'It feels much better 
that way! I feel so free!' came Bertrand's answer. Peter 
joked: 'Are you attending school that way on monday?' 'That's a 
bright idea, mate, imagine Mrs.Kerrington's face!' They laughed as 
they thought of their very old-fashioned arts teacher, who would 
not even tolerate a boy leaving the highest shirt button open. She 
was a nice old lady, like a mother, or rather a grandmother, but 
everyone had to be very orderly in her class, or she would become 
sour. 

When Peter left Bertrand that day, he was already sure that no 
infection would develop. The swelling continued to build down, and 
Bertrand was starting to sit down without much discomfort. But he 
finished the day without dressing.

When Peter visited Bertrand on sunday morning, he found the house 
silent. He climbed the staircase, and went to his friend's bedroom. 
There he was, sleeping like a marmot. Peter contemplated the 
sleeping boy. It was strange, why did sleeping children always look 
like angels? Even his sister, that wicked beast, was outright 
lovely when she slept! And here was his long-time best friend, pal 
of so many adventures, companion in good and in bad times, sharer 
of big plans and even bigger dreams, with that same angelical 
expression on his face while he slept! It was quite late in the 
morning, but why should he wake him up? It was sunday, after all. 
Peter switched on the computer, connected to the web, and checked 
the school's homepage. He followed the link to "events", and sure 
enough, there was the entry for the Messiah on thursday. Featured 
treble soloists: Himself and Bertrand. No mention of Jimmy. Poor 
boy! He had rehearsed real hard and had developed quite some voice, 
and now he was left out of the game. Something would have to be 
done! Peter fired up the "Allegro" music program, and browsed 
through the existing files. There they were, all the Messiah 
soprano solos and duos. Bertrand had entered them. So that was his 
way of learning them! What a cheater! Peter smiled. He had learned 
them directly from the scores. But he had to admit, entering them 
into such a software was a really fine way to learn them, with less 
chance for overseeing some flat or getting the tempi wrong. He 
loaded the file containing the Messiah's last soprano air: "If God 
be for us". He had an idea. He made a backup of it, then hacked in 
a countersoprano line of his own invention. It was a playful 
adornment over the soprano line. This improvement had been hiding 
for months in his head, now he quickly keyed it into the program. 
He loaded the mixer program, set the volume very low, and let the 
computer play the air. He stopped it. Something was awfully wrong. 
Of course, he had forgotten to set the proper key! He grinned and 
corrected the mistake. Now he played it again. This was it! He 
corrected a few notes, made a few changes. He could sing that, but 
barely, and only as long as Mr.Holtmann didn't tune too high. But 
the concert would be in the cathedral, with the big organ, which 
was tuned properly, so... no problems!  Peter played the duet 
again. It was great. What would Mr.H„ndel say, if he heard it? 
Well, usually he had discarded any modifications suggested by 
anyone. But that's not much of a problem, after all Mr.H„ndel died 
250 years ago... Time to improve a bit on his music! 

Bertrand was stirring. Peter increased the volume, and played the 
piece again. Bertrand opened his eyes. When the duet was over, 
Bertrand said in a sleepy voice: 'Poor H„ndel. What time is 
it?' 'Almost time for lunch, you lazy sleeper! And don't criticise 
my work before you fully wake up!' They
laughed.  Bertrand stretched lazily. 'Oh, I slept well! He threw 
the blanket back, then felt around his crotch and did some 
contortions to look there. 'It's as if they never had been there', 
he said. 'Doesn't it hurt anymore?' asked Peter. 'Not at all!' 
beamed Bertrand while he sat up carefully but without trouble. His 
bag was wrinkled up, an empty flap of skin, the wounds could barely 
be seen, the swelling was gone, and even the colors were apparently 
starting to fade...  

'Today you DO dress!' ordered Peter. 'Sure I do, doctor!' answered 
his friend, grinning. 'But first let me pee, before you force me 
into any of that stuff!' and off he went. Peter thought about it 
all. How well had it gone for Bertrand! How much better than for 
himself! He had been walking around for six weeks with banded, dead 
balls, and all the problems they caused, constantly fearing 
infection, or toxins leaking into his body, and here was this guy, 
who had gone through it all in just two days!

Bertrand came from the bathroom, and dressed. He didn't seem to 
have problems. When he was ready, Peter invited: 'Ready for today's 
bike tour?' Bertrand stepped close, and hit Peter in the ribs. That 
was his only answer to the proposal. Peter laughed, despite the 
fact that Bertrand's blow had been quite hard. 'Now I can't even 
pay you back for your boxing!' he joked. Bertrand laughed. They 
went down to the kitchen, where Bertrand had a very late breakfast. 
Then Peter left for lunch at home, returning in the early 
afternoon. He just couldn't leave his friend alone now. He found 
him sitting at the computer. He returned the keys to Bertrand, he 
wouldn't need them anymore. Bertrand commented: 'That high voice 
you added there is not so bad after all, it just sounds bad on the 
computer. But can you actually SING that? Or is it a joke?' Now 
that was a frontal attack against Peter's ego! He just said: 'Play 
it!' Bertrand started the playback, and Peter sang his 
countersoprano line. After a few measures Bertrand added his voice, 
singing the treble line. When it was over, Bertrand said, 
excited: 'Now again, but without the computer!' They did it. When 
they finished, Peter just looked out of the window. Bertrand slowly 
nodded. 'Approved. But I have a dirty proposal. Let's add Jimmy. He 
wanted so badly to sing this piece. He must sing the treble with 
me. Anyway I need help to sing this against you!' Bertrand smiled, 
while Peter turned around slowly. 'Do you always read my mind?' he 
asked quietly. 'That's what I was thinking when I wrote down the 
countersoprano part this morning, while you were sleeping!'  The 
two decided not to ask Mr.Holtmann for permission. They would just 
do it, for good or for bad. 'Are you sure your new voice line 
doesn't clash with the instruments?' asked Bertrand. Peter had the 
answer for this too: 'I invented it while listening to the Messiah 
on my father's CDs. So I AM sure!'
 
-----ooooo-----

Monday afternoon was the first complete rehearsal, with the full 
choir, the bass and tenor soloists, and the school orchestra. Just 
the organ was still missing, replaced by Mr.Holtmann's Casio... It 
was quite some mess, but after an hour or so all of them started to 
synchronize. Peter was surprised to see Robert among the bass 
singers in the choir! He looked strange there with his still 
childlike face, but some pimples gave him the right to be there... 
His voice was already quite stable, he reached all the bass notes 
without trouble, but he had almost no volume. He was there mainly 
to get accustomed to his new place in the choir. 

They sang just once through the whole work, including solos and 
orchestral parts. But due to the initial trouble, instructions, 
explanations and more, this grew into a marathon rehearsal, lasting 
for over four hours. During all that time Jimmy showed an unusual 
eagerness, unusual even for him! Mr.Holtmann seemed not to notice 
it. His attention was being diverted by too many things. 

-----ooooo-----


Thursday evening. The great day. The cathedral was crammed full of 
people. The Messiah had always been a crowdpleaser, and many people 
came for it even when they didn't go to any other concert. Peter 
was a bit pale. He had had the shits again, two days long. Would 
this accompany him for all of his musical career? The only thing 
out of the common was his secret arrangement with Bertrand and 
Jimmy! Was that enough to justify two days of diarrhea? Hardly. But 
the fact was, he had it.

The players were tuning. The noise was quieting down. The organist 
sat at his playing board. The choir was ready, in their robes. 
Mr.Holtmann gave the sign to enter. They did so, and orderly 
went "everyone to his own place", like one phrase in the Messiah 
said. The audience was fully quiet now, except for the occassional 
coughing. Mr.Holtmann entered, and people started to applaud. Where 
was the custom not to applaud in a church? Apparently it was gone.

The first piece started, a sinfony, for the orchestra alone. Peter 
tuned his mind to H„ndel. The shits were forgotten. He was in his 
habitat. His life. Then a tenor piece followed. That unpleasant guy 
from the eleventh grade sang it, but the voice was quite good. 
Another tenor piece, than the full choir. Ahh, how that sounded! 
Peter enjoyed as much to sing in the choir as doing a solo! This 
music! H„ndel's best-known work, performed with a full choir, a 
full orchestra, and a real great organ! This was as good as it 
could get! However problematic the rehearsals could be, somehow in 
the concerts the music just was there, it just worked!  

The following alto solo was a revelation to Peter. Robert had found 
a deserving follower! That boy, he couldn't remember his name, did 
sing great! He mastered the prestissimo without a glitch, and 
sounding beautifully throughout! All this while still in the first 
part of the Messiah, which was rather weak compared to the 
tremendously intense last part! Peter enjoyed those solos sung by 
others, enjoyed singing the choir parts, and waited for his own 
solos. The first treble solo was Bertrand's "There were shepherds". 
Peter smiled as his friend sang it sweetly. A reminiscence of the 
times when Bertrand couldn't sing in any other way... But for the 
last several months he could put on a stronger, brighter sound, if 
he just wanted to. After the following chorus finally came Peter's 
first solo: "Rejoice greatly", a rather difficult piece full of 
coloraturas. Peter showed off. He found it rather easy to keep his 
voice audible above the instruments, something that had been 
difficult just some months ago. A growing chest helped! When his 
air was ending, the audience interrupted with cheers and 'bravo!' 
calls. 

The music just flowed on. Peter sang, heard sing, was part of the 
music. A few more solos for him, another few for Bertrand, many 
more for the other soloists. Chorus parts in between. Several times 
the applause interrupted the music. Then the great "Hallelujah", 
known to almost every soul in this world, however little general 
knowledge they may have about baroque music. From here on nothing 
could halt the success, one piece lead into the next. A high point 
was the bass air "The trumpet shall sound", where a little boy, 
probably not older than ten or eleven years, played the trumpet! He 
had skills, no doubt! Again rushing applause interrupted, then the 
music flowed on. And then it had to come, 'If God be for us', the 
piece where the boys had their surprise prepared. Jimmy, Bertrand 
and Peter stepped forward, out of the choir lines. Mr.Holtmann 
didn't understand a thing, he must have been thinking they were 
quarrelling over the privilege of singing the last treble air in 
the work! In the school choir the soloists always stayed withing 
the rows. He made a desperate grimasse, trying to command the boys 
back in line. But Peter playfully put his arms around the other 
boy's necks, Jimmy to the left and Bertrand to the right, and the 
old teacher noticed that this was something special, something 
planned. They wanted to sing it together. So it be. He changed his 
face into a smile, and started the piece. And they sang. And how 
they did! Peter's voice flew skywards, harmonizing on top of the 
already high treble line sung by the other two, his eyes lost in 
the infiniteness, a smile on his face. It was effortless. Jimmy 
sang the treble line stably, with an iron-hard expression. He 
feared punishment for taking part in this complot... but this was 
worth it! Bertrand just sang. This was good. He would sing such 
music for all of his life. But when he noticed the tears rolling 
down the teacher's face, he smiled too, as to comfort and support 
him. Not that you can see much of a smile when someone is singing, 
but you can guess it... And you can hear it!
 
Peter had left his arm around the other boy's necks during all of 
the piece, and when they had finished, the three boys had just 
bowed shortly and returned to their places in the choir rows. The 
cheers, claps, 'bravo's, and frantic applause forced a pause of 
several minutes before the choir could set in for the last two 
pieces, concluding this great performance of the great work by the 
great composer.  The final applause was heavy and long, seemingly 
nonending.

-----ooooo-----


The next day Peter was in for a nasty surprise. When he returned 
from school, still in high spirits from last evening's success, his 
mother was showing a bold face. 'Peter, I need to talk to you. 
Let's go up to your room!' Was she complaining about the mess he 
had left there, dirty socks under the bed, cyano glue patches on 
the rug, and so? He entered his room, mom came behind and closed 
the door.  'Peter, I got a letter from your school doctor. He 
writes that you behaved quite strangely and didn't let him complete 
the medical checkup.' Peter's heart almost stopped. So, that's it. 
Funnyhouse, here I come. 'Will you tell me why you did this? What 
happened exactly?'

Peter thought. Maybe he could get out of this. 'Mom, that guy every 
year fingers around at my private parts. I'm tired of this. So I 
told him that my religion doesn't allow this from now on. Is that 
so unexcuseable?' He was relieved when his mother laughed. 'Peter, 
many boys in your age become shy about their body. But it's not 
necessary! You can show the doctor whatever he wants to see. Look,' 
and she showed him the letter. 'The doctor writes that your shyness 
is quite normal, but he is concerned because last year you still 
had some phimosis, so he recommends a checkup.' Peter read through 
the letter. Exactly that was what the doctor had written. 'Mom, I 
have no phimosis anymore! I told the doc this, but he doesn't seem 
to believe me!' Mother answered: 'Just show me, and it's OK.'  Oh 
no! This was becoming worse! 'But mom, I'm nearly thirteen years 
old! Don't make me strip in front of you!' Indeed he had not 
appeared naked in front of his mother for a few years now. But mom 
didn't buy this reasoning. 'Don't make so much fuss about it, 
Peter. I told you, it's
quite  normal to be shy about your body at this age, but you really 
don't need to. I'm your mother!' Peter stood there. What could he 
do? Jump out of the window? Wouldn't be of much help. 'Come on, 
Peter. Either you show me that everything is fine, or I will 
schedule you for a checkup at the clinic!' 

Peter was close to tears. There was nothing he could do! Perhaps he 
could have mom schedule him, and then run away from home before the 
term came? Nonsense. He had better take some risk. Speaking not a 
word, he lowered his pants, then fished for his penis through the 
hole in the underpant, pulled it out, and using four fingers, 
started pulling back his foreskin. It hurt somewhat. But he could 
do it. And then mom, in a quick and playful move, pulled his 
underwear down! Defeat. Total defeat. The end of the world. Peter's 
sight blurred as tears shot into his eyes. He felt weak. The 
tension was too much for him, and he wept like a little child as he 
first sat, then lay on the bed. It took a good while for Peter's 
mother to find words again. 'Who did this to you?!' was the only 
thing she could ask. Still sobbing, Peter tried to control himself, 
somewhat lightened by the apparent fact that the shock had been 
bigger for mom than for him. Quietly he said: 'I did it myself, 
mom.' Reaction was immediate. 'Peter, your really don't need to 
protect the sick person who did that! Regardless if it's a teacher, 
a friend, or whom, just tell me! Please, tell me!' Peter was 
getting rid of his tears and starting to see clearly 
again. 'Really, mom, I did it myself! I intend to become a 
professional castrato singer.'  'Stop that, Peter, I can't believe 
a  word of that crap! Tell me who did it, or we will have to find 
out otherwise!' Peter again got tears in his eyes. 'Mom, really, I 
did it myself!' And, weeping, he told the whole story about his 
dreams, his wishes, his plans, and his deed. He only kept Bertrand 
out of the story.

-----ooooo-----

The weekend was tense at Peter's home. His parents didn't let him 
out. When Bertrand came on saturday afternoon, Peter's mother 
turned him away under the pretext that Peter was ill. Peter was 
pretty much locked in. He did some work on his latest ship, but he 
wasn't getting anywhere with it. He just didn't enjoy it now. 
Several times he was questioned my his mother, by his father, by 
both together. Just his sister was like always, and he found her 
pestering to be the best thing in this drab place. On sunday he got 
a few unobserved minutes when mom and dad had join efforts to send 
away a doorstep preacher, and he quickly fired up the computer and 
sent Bertrand an e-mail: 'My parents found out everything about ME. 
The doc gave me away. I'm locked up. This is worse than the 
funnyhouse! Peter.' He deleted the backup copy and shut the machine 
down. He hoped Bertrand would understand what the uppercase "ME" 
meant. He didn't dare to write that he had not given his friend 
away, fearing that someone else may read that mail and find out 
about Bertrand. He went back to his ship, but it was no fun. He 
looked into the Messiah score, but it was no fun either. So he just 
looked out of the window and let the day go by. 


-----ooooo-----

On monday he went to school like always. At least his confinement 
was not perpetual! It was not often that he looked forward so much 
for school... As soon as Bertrand met with Peter, he said: 'Man, 
you look old and gray! Was it so bad? Did they beat you?'  'No, but 
they asked me over and over who did it. They just couldn't believe 
I did it myself. And then they had a lot of phone calls. Something 
is up.' Peter's worried face tried a smile. 'Go visit me at the 
funnyhouse, will you?' Bertrand laughed. 'If they lock you up 
there, I will go and steal you out! You are too good for them!' And 
he grabbed Peter around the waist. What a good soul was Bertrand! 
He never lost his wit! Peter felt a little better. 

At lunch Peter's mother said: 'Peter, I hope you don't have any 
urgent appointments this afternoon?'  'Well, mom, I want to go to 
Bertrand. He needs help with his ship. It's quite 
sophisticated!'  'Sorry, Peter, but you will have to postpone that. 
I got an appointment for you with Doctor Brown.' Peter made a sour 
face. 'Mom, you still don't believe I have no phimosis anymore?'  
His mother laughed shortly. 'No, Peter. You won't have to show 
Doctor Brown your secret parts. She is a psychiatrist.' A shrink! 
Noooo!!! And a woman, even worse! Must that be?  'Mom, I'm not 
crazy! I don't need any shrink! Do you want to lock me up in the 
funnyhouse?'  Mom came around, and embraced her son. 'Peter, I 
would never do such a thing. I just want to be sure you don't have 
an even bigger problem. Doctor Brown is a nice lady, believe me. 
And very capable. She will know what to do.'  Peter felt like an 
asassin on the way to electrocution.

When Doctor Brown met them in the afternoon, Peter thought that 
indeed she could be reasonable. He sensed something trustworthy 
about her. He was quickly proven right when the doctor said 
quietly, but clearly: 'Mrs.Andrews, would you please wait outside?' 
That was unexpected for mom, but she obeyed. Peter was glad. This 
doctor knew how he felt!

Once his mother was outside and the door closed, a long 
conversation started. 
'Peter, I know you don't want to be here. But you may need some 
help. Did your parents react to harshly when they found out what 
you did?'
'My mother seemed not to know what to do, and just couldn't believe 
I did it myself. As for dad, I still have no idea what he thinks 
about it.'
'Did you really do it yourself?'
'Of course!!! You don't believe me?'
'I do. I just wanted to hear it from yourself. Peter, are you still 
sure you did the right thing?'
'---'
'You don't need to answer if you don't want.'
'I do want to answer, but it's so hard to tell. For me, yes, I'm 
still sure. But my parents seem to suffer a lot from it.'
'Did you really do it for the reason I was told?'
'I don't know what they told you.'
'To keep your voice and become a famous singer.'
'Then they told you right.'
'No other reasons?'
'Not really. Perhaps a little fear of puberty and all that follows. 
But mainly because puberty would have destroyed my voice.'
'Are you so sure that your voice would have been destroyed?'
Peter became appassionate. 'Mrs.Brown, nine out of every ten guys 
who have good voices as boys get bad voices as adults! Isn't that 
enough?'
'OK, OK. What's a bad voice?'
'One that sounds ugly, scratchy, that's not strong enough, that 
doesn't cover enough range, that can't maintain tune! There are so 
many of them! Just hear around among the pop singers!
The doctor laughed. 'I see. And I have to agree with that. Peter, 
how did you learn how to do it?'
'Books, and the internet.'
'I could have guessed that. Did anybody help you?'
'No. I did it alone'. He wasn't lieing. Bertrand did not directly 
help him, after all.
'That's hard to believe. Most people your age trust someone. But 
you don't have to give anyone away.'
Peter reddened. He stayed silent. This doctor was nice. And she 
understood him.
'Peter, how did the obsession start?'
'I dreamed about it. And I have seen so many boys loose their 
voices!'
'I see. How do you think your life should go on now?'
'First, finish the school, I guess. Than I would like to get a good 
singing tutor, to train as a professional singer. And then... 
concert tours, recordings, whatever it be, as long as it is MUSIC!'
'Peter, did you ever think about having a family?'
'But... I HAVE one!'
'No,' the doctor laughed, 'I mean as an adult, to marry and have 
children!'
Peter blushed. 'Well, that's out of the question now, I guess, but 
anyway I don't think I would like it.'
'Did you think of this before?'
'Yes, some. I can't imagine myself running after girls, then 
working in an office, and so. I prefer a free life.'
'Peter, would you do such a thing again?'
Peter chuckled. 'I don't think there is a way to do it again, 
Mrs.Brown! I did it right on the first try!'
Now the doctor blushed, but quickly recovered. 'Is there anything 
else you would like to tell me? Or ask me? Do you need any help?'
Peter took a moment. 'Doctor Brown, there is one thing you could do 
for me.'
'Yes?'
'Keep me out of the funnyhouse, will you?' Tears were in his eyes. 
'Oh Peter, no one will ever send you to such a clinic! You aren't 
mad at all, just quite special! An idealist like there are few in 
this world! And very brave, too. Trust me, you won't be locked up! 
Now get and send your mother in, and wait outside!'

Peter could still not grasp his luck. He got up, and awkwardly 
grasped the doctors hand. 'Thanks, Doctor Brown! Many thanks!' And 
out he went, finding his mother outside and telling her, 
smiling: 'Your turn!' 

He waited for what seemed like hours. Then his mother returned, and 
they went home. 'What did Doctor Brown tell you, mom?' Peter 
asked. 'Basically, that you are not a suicidal type, that you are 
not crazy, and that you should go on singing.' Peter jumped up in 
the car. Thanks, Mrs.Brown! 
   
-----ooooo-----

It was some days later when Mr.Holtmann asked Peter to his office. 
He started the talk: 'Peter, first of all I would like to 
congratulate you for the trick in the Messiah. I was quite worried 
when you three stepped out of the choir, but the applause proved 
that it wasn't bad. I guess you were the instigator of that issue?' 
Peter felt hot. 'Yes, Mr.Holtmann. I thought it would be a nice 
surprise for you too.' 'And it was. I really thought you three were 
about to put up a fight, and was about to stop it, when you 
embraced them.' Peter smiled. 'You got the message just in 
time!'  'Indeed', the teacher said, smiling too. 'Where did you 
find that score?'  'I didn't find it!!! I composed that myself, on 
Bertrand's computer, the sunday morning before the concert!'  The 
teacher made wide open eyes. 'You rascal! Not only can you sing 
such a thing, you can compose it too? You aren't kidding me?'  'No, 
Mr.Holtmann, I'm serious. It's not hard at all. And the computer 
helps a lot getting it right.' The old teacher slowly shook his 
head. But he smiled. Then he went serious again. 'Peter,' he 
said, 'there is another thing I need to talk out with you. This 
morning I was informed about your situation. At last I understand 
why you were so sure you could sing the Messiah! Tell me, are you 
crazy or just fanatic?' So fast did the news travel! Two more 
weeks, and everyone in town would know. Well, there was no way to 
keep it secret now. Peter answered: 'My shrink said I'm not crazy, 
and dismissed me on that ground. So I guess I must be fanatic!' He 
smiled.
'Our time is ripe for a revival of the castrati tradition! Have you 
heard that
sentence before? I read it in the internet! A famous musicologist 
wrote it!'  The old teacher slowly assented. 'I believe that man is 
right. Our world is mad enough to restart it. Well, let's make the 
best out of it!'

-----ooooo-----


During the first three weeks of the school vacation the choir and 
orchestra did an extense concert tour. It was exhausting, but a lot 
of fun too. They had concerts every evening, would move to the next 
city during the morning, and sometimes even have midday concerts. 
The Messiah was the piece performed in most places, and Peter's 
addition had become a fixed part of it. Even the newspapers talked 
about that trio! On the program cards he was announced differently 
now: "Peter Andrews, countersoprano", while his buddies were 
announced simply as "trebles". Perhaps someone out there noticed? 
In addition to the Messiah, much of their other repertoire was sung 
too. While the pieces for full choir and orchestra were preferred, 
a few times they gave "Friday Afternoons" and similiar boy-choir-
only pieces too. All together, it was a very successful trip, and 
Peter's most extense choir trip so far.

Then a rather boring summer started for Peter. Bertrand was going 
to France with his parents. It was to be his first real 
acquaintance with his parent's country, having left it while still 
very small. Peter spent the time building ships, learning music on 
his own, and listening to his father's CDs. Among them he found the 
disk he had in mind for months: "Moreschi, the last castrato". He 
trembled while he put the disk into the player. A terrible 
scratching noise started, after all the recordings were made almost 
a hundred years ago, using very early sound recording technology! 
And then Moreschi's voice set in. Peter stopped the player. It was 
awful! He felt touched. Was that the voice of a real castrato? It 
sounded more like an old lady! He restarted the player. Yes, the 
voice was shaky, the tuning was impossible, the notes were attacked 
from the cellar up, over a full octave and sometimes more! It was a 
joke. Peter set the volume quite low and read through the booklet 
while he tried to stand the singing. The booklet presented a lot of 
excuses. Moreschi was not a good singer, he was old, he had been 
nervous, and the sweeping attacks were standard practice of the 
time. Oh well, Peter thought, he could do much better, anywhere and 
anytime! It was interesting, anyway. Funny, thought Peter: The last 
castrato from the old era singing on that CD, and the first 
castrato of the new era listening! A snapshot of history! Should he 
write down this date? Perhaps his history teacher was right, and 
dates were important? He grinned.
 
------ooooo-----

When Bertrand finally returned, the first thing the two boys did 
was grabbing their bikes and setting out for the lake. Peter had 
been there a few times during the summer, but alone it was no joy. 
As soon as they arrived, they undressed, climbed their tree and 
jumped off. How refreshing the water was! They swam far out, then 
returned to shore. Bertrand had taken along his father's digital 
camera and shot a few pictures.

While they were laying in the grass, suddenly Bertrand said 'My 
parents now know about my castration.' Peter looked up. 'And was 
the fuss too bad?'  'Not at all', Bertrand said lazily. Now that 
was interesting! 'How did they find out?' Bertrand laughed. 'You 
know my parents are nudists?' 'No', replied Peter, but it should 
have been obvious!  Bertrand had been the one who originally 
proposed to skinny dip here in the lake. Peter remembered his 
friend naked from the waist down, in the kitchen. And he had never 
seen anything such as a pyjama in Bertrand's bedroom! 
Bertrand continued: 'Well, they are. So, at the Riviera we went to 
nudist beaches. There are a whole lot of them. I couldn't stay 
clothed all day long in the heat, so I just undressed too. First, 
they didn't notice. Then, they started looking. Then, they stared. 
And then, they asked. But they noticed it so slowly that their 
reaction was mild!' 'And then?' asked Peter. 'They threatened to 
send me to a shrink. They also told me they would put me on hormone 
treatment.' Peter looked worried, but Bertrand just went on 
happily: 'I threatened back. If they put me on hormones, I would 
kill myself. So they promised not to do it. First round is over. 
But next week they will probably send me to a shrink.' Peter 
offered help: 'Tell them to ask my parents about a good shrink! 
Doctor Brown will get your parents back on track!' Bertrand laughed 
his bright laugh, and Peter added his. The sun shone warm on their 
backs. 


-----ooooo-----            THE END             -----ooooo-----