Immortal Castrati 3

It just gets wierder . . .

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  IMMORTAL CASTRATI  

 
   

     
     
    
 -3-

     They were walking across the conservatorio grounds towards the 
stone wall and near the huge tree where Pietro had first seen 
Roberto's shadow a few nights before.  The little vampire was busy 
explaining the circumstances surrounding his arrival and Giovani's 
death as they walked.  It was a story beyond belief, but somehow, 
Pietro believed it.  He had no idea what time it was, but the 
nearly full moon lighted the grounds quite well.  Roberto, of 
course, had no trouble seeing where he was going. 
     "He was so happy for you, Pietro, " Roberto was saying, "so 
happy he was being careless.  I don't think he knew that he was 
being followed.  Giovani was attacked by common cutpurses, not me 
!  I was going to set off following you and the Maestro, and I have 
to admit, I was planning to attack.  Perhaps not Giovani, had 
someone else come along.  I heard him playing for you, after all.  
I could see the adoration on his face.  
     "But I had heard you, as I said, from so far away and I had to 
come.  I was so tired and hungry, Pietro, you cannot know how it 
feels.  When I caught up with Giovani, he had already been beaten 
almost senseless and left for dead.  He was indeed very close to it 
when I found him.  One of his arms was broken, the bone protruding 
through the skin, and so many of his ribs broken as well that he 
could hardly breath.  And his face was such a mess.  I knew, 
Pietro, I knew that he was going to die, so I did what I had to 
do.  Can you understand that ? "
     Pietro stared dumbly at him.
     "He was bleeding so terribly, " Roberto continued, "the blood 
running from his nose and mouth.  I've seen a great deal of death 
and injury in my life, Pietro, and Giovani was dying.  There was 
only one thing I could do, and I had to do it !  I couldn't go for 
help, even though I wanted to.  I had come too far too fast and was 
exhausted.  Too much to even try to begin healing him as did for 
you.  Yes, maybe you can say it was your fault that he left for the 
doctor's house.  Maybe I can say it is my fault for taking 
advantage of him.  Maybe it's no one's fault.  Blame yourself, 
blame me, blame God !  Who knows ?  I don't.  But this I know, 
Pietro - I did not kill him outright !"
     "Did he say anything before he . . . ?"  Pietro asked quietly.
     Roberto nodded and turned to stare up at the moon.  "He said, 
'Tell Pietro I wish him all his heart desires, and that I love 
him.'  I think he recognized my clothing and mistook me for one of 
your fellow students.  Afterwards, I ran down the men who killed 
him and repaid them generously . . . "
     Pietro was silent for a long while and then reached out to 
touch Roberto's shoulder.  The cloth of the little vampire's robe 
was rough to the touch, much rougher than Pietro's.  The weave was 
different as well.
     "You said you wanted to teach me something, " Pietro offered.
     Roberto could feel the emotion through the boy's touch, and 
knew that he understood.  Suddenly exonerated, he smiled.  Pietro 
noticed that his appearance had returned to almost normal, and he 
looked more like a boy than a miniature monster now.  It was as if 
a great weight had fallen from both of them.
     "Long ago, " Roberto began, "before your Maestro and even the 
old Headmaster were born, I was taught a song.  It was the first 
song I ever sang in public outside of my own conservatorio, and no 
one has heard it for half a century or more."  Roberto paused and 
sighed.  "I sang it at the funeral of my cousin, and moved the 
entire gathering to tears.  Strange how I should think to pass it 
on to you at this time.  But it seems right, somehow.  If you will 
do me the honor, I shall teach it to you; you have already heard 
it, however."
     Pietro raised one eyebrow.
     "When you were asleep that night with that chubby castrato . . 
. Frederico, was it . . . watching over you ?  I put him to sleep, 
in a way, and sent him out.  I watched over you that night, and 
sang it softly over and over until the sun came up.  It is a part 
of both of us now, so just listen and join me when it comes to 
you.  You need only to concentrate."
     Slowly, the vampire castrato composed himself and drew in a 
deep breath.  As he lifted his pale gray head to the sky, a soft 
gentle note began in his throat and gradually climbed its way up 
the stars, filling the night with a sound that silenced barking 
dogs, insects, and all other manner of night creatures.  The song 
continued in its mournful pace, rising and falling as Roberto 
poured what was left of his very soul into it.  Pietro, with tears 
standing in his eyes, suddenly felt the compulsion and joined in.  
He was amazed at how the words came to him, as if he had practiced 
this melody note for note for months.  It was so easy, and when it 
was finally over, the two castrati - one young and one very old - 
began it again.
     The moon made its trip across the night sky as the boys sang 
her on her way.  Finally, as they finished the sad song once again, 
Roberto held up his hand to signal a stop.  "Enough, " he 
whispered, "it is late, and the sun will be up in an hour or so.  
Go back to your room, Pietro, and I will seek shelter after . . . "
     Roberto hesistated.  Pietro knew from the look of the little 
vampire that he was yet weak from the healing he had given 
earlier.  Pietro could see it - Roberto was hungry.  When Roberto 
turned to go, Pietro caught a flash of moonlight off of the boy's 
fangs.  "Explain to the Maestro any way you can, Pietro.  Honor 
your friend.  Do not let this night be spent in vain . . . if 
nothing else . . . " but Roberto's voice was already fading off 
into the night.  Pietro could not help but wonder if the vampire 
castrato was off to kill someone, or simply to find an unsuspecting 
animal somewhere.
     Not sure if Roberto would hear him, Pietro looked up into the 
night sky and spoke three words -
     "Please come back ."

     When the Maestro arrived in his office that morning, he was 
not happy.  Standing at his desk, in black robe and red sash, was 
Pietro.  His blonde hair had been trimmed to a manageable form, and 
his face was fleshy and glowing with health.  He smelled of a 
recent scented bath as well.
     "Have you lost your mind ?"  the Maestro roared, "You aren't 
supposed to be out of bed for another three or four days !  Are you 
trying to kill yourself ?"
     Pietro had decided that there was no point in argueing.  He 
simply shook his head and untied his sash.  He then opened his robe 
and pulled down his undergarment.
     The Maestro gasped.
     Pietro, castrated only two days before, was fully healed.  The 
empty scrotum was shruken flat up against his body, and the cut had 
transformed into a hairline scar that was bearly visible.  There 
was no swelling, and the boy looked as if the operation had been 
done years before.  He also looked to have gained a few pounds, and 
his flesh-tone was near perfect.  In short, the Maestro found him 
beautiful.
     "How is this possible ?" the stunned Maestro Lorenzo asked 
quietly.
     "Call it a miracle, if you like, " the castrato answered.
     The Maestro was speechless.  It simply was not possible, but 
being a man of faith, he found himself with no choice but to accept 
Pietro's explanation.  Thinking he ought to say something for the 
benefit of his position, the Maestro cleared his throat and said, 
"Don't be contrary, boy."
     Pietro smiled, but also saw the look of pain in his teacher's 
eyes.  It was the pain Pietro had seen in his own mirror, and 
surprisingly, the pain he had seen in Roberto's eyes.  It was Loss 
personified, the Grief and Suffering of the Departure of someone 
who is never coming back - a Brother left alone, a Father with one 
less Son . . . or an Orphan with no one to call his own.
     "When are the services, Maestro ?"
     "Immediately after breakfast, Pietro.   Have you eaten since 
the operation ?"
     "No, sir, " the boy replied.
     "Then let us go to try to eat something, for we must have 
strength and there is food in plenty, " the Maestro suggested, "but 
first we must inform the Headmaster."
     Pietro nodded and could not help but wonder if Roberto had had 
his own breakfast, and what or whom it had been.
     
     The Headmaster was just as surprised as the Maestro Lorenzo 
had been, and Pietro was obliged to repeat his revealing show of 
evidence.  The Headmaster, whose nerves were not those of a young 
man anymore, had collapsed into his overstuffed chair - making the 
sign of the cross repeatedly.
     Pietro found that amusing.
     "Very well, " the old man announced after several minutes (and 
several deep breaths), "You will sing, Pietro.  You will make no 
mention of this miraculous healing of yours, not even to the 
doctor.  When the services are over, you will take to your bed and 
play the part.  I cannot understand this, but it is surely a sign 
that the world is not yet ready for.  Now, what is it you will sing 
?"
     "I wish to keep that in secret until the services, sir, " the 
castrato replied.
     "Then you will do it a cappella then ?"
     Pietro nodded.
     "He always was one to go for the hard parts, " the Maestro 
stated.
     The Headmaster nodded. 
     "Well then, let us get underway.  Maestro Lorenzo, carry 
Pietro to the dining room and make this whole charade look good.  
After you have eaten, and you will eat only half of a usual 
breakfast, Pietro, the Maestro will carry you to the coach and we 
will go to the funeral.  There you will sing this mysterious song 
of yours, Pietro, and amaze us all.  Try to look suitably sick when 
you are finished, " the Headmaster concluded.
     "God help us, " the old man whispered, as the Maestro picked 
up the slight boy and carried him off to breakfast.
     
     There were many surprised looks when the Maestro deposited 
Pietro at an unoccupied table in the dining room.  Most of the 
stares and whispers came from the castrati students, who all 
recalled having spent the week following their operations in bed.  
The 'intact' students, the musicians and composers, only gave a few 
looks and approving nods.  Someone, after all, had to sing their 
compositions.
     Pietro waiting quietly while the Maestro fetched their 
breakfasts, returning only a few of the looks with his eyes half 
closed.  He wasn't sure how to act, and didn't want to appear 
overdramatic.  While he waited, he folded his arms on the table in 
front of him and put his head down.  It was Marc, the dark-skinned 
boy from the south who had ran for the Maestro when Pietro had 
first regained consciousness, that came over to talk to Pietro.  
Not a castrato himself, yet, Marc was very curious.  He also tended 
to chatter.
     Pietro turned his head slightly to face the boy, who was about 
a year or so younger than he.  Any minute now, Pietro thought, I 
can hear him already . . . But Marc did not launch into a barrage 
of questions as Pietro had expected.  He merely placed his small 
hand on Pietro's shoulder and asked one simple question, "Was it 
like they say it is, Pietro ?  I'm afraid."
     Marc's face was unusually pale for someone so dark-
complected.  Pietro glanced around to see the Maestro headed back 
to the table with two plates of food and answered quickly, "It 
doesn't hurt when they do it, Marc.  If they have mentioned it to 
you already, you must show some promise then.  The doctor is very 
good and you will sleep through the whole thing.  You have nothing 
to worry about."
     "What is this ?" the Maestro questioned, setting the lesser 
filled plate in front of Pietro.
     "Marc was just concerned about me, " Pietro replied, "and 
about himself too."  
     The darker boy was staring at the Maestro with a look of 
unconcealed fear on his face, but surprisingly, the Maestro smiled 
and said, "Go get your plate and finish your meal with us, Marc.  
If Pietro will answer, you have my permission to ask.  Are you up 
to eating and talking at the same time, Pietro ?"
     Marc had scurried off to get his half-eaten breakfast before 
Pietro could reply.
     "We mentioned it to him yesterday, " the Maestro said, "and he 
almost turned completely white !"
     Pietro nearly choked on a bite of toast, and the Maestro was 
chuckling.
     "He's frightened, of course, " Pietro said.
     "Well, the last boy we did certainly wasn't, " the Maestro 
responded quickly.
     Pietro blushed and then moved his chair slightly to accomodate 
Marc.
     The Maestro simply could not resist.  Perhaps there was a 
sadistic streak in his nature somewhere, but the look on Marc's 
face was too priceless.  He was studying Pietro as he ate, as if 
searching for some obvious change in the boy.  The only 
differences, really, (other than Marc's coloration) were the 
clothes.  Pietro in his black robe and red sash, and Marc in a 
simple, short gray tunic.  "Have you thought about it much, then, 
Marc ?" the Maestro asked.
     Marc, who had just taken a drink from his glass of milk, 
reached for his napkin and sneezed into it.  His eyes teared up, he 
choked once, and they all knew that the milk had not made it to his 
stomach.  The Maestro was smiling openly, and Pietro was shaking 
his head.
     "All night, sir.  I didn't sleep very much."  Marc's eyes were 
wide.
     The Maestro nodded and set his fork down.  "You show me 
talent, Marc, and that is rare.  Of all the boys here, no, even of 
all the castrati here, few can invoke the feeling we look for when 
they sing.  You are untrained and very amatuerish, Marc, but I can 
hear the beginnings of power in your voice.  You have far to go, 
and much work to do, but you will be one of the best.  I can 
tell."  All traces of sarcasm and playing were gone from the man's 
voice now as he continued his lecture.
     "So many boys are cut, and then prove unworthy.  That is why 
the law reads as it does.  You have nothing to fear, Marc, for I 
believe you will not be one those eunuchs who winds up singing in a 
local choir for the rest of his life - you, my boy, show enough 
promise of a future already."  The Maestro had finished his little 
speech, and had gone back to eating.
     Pietro was amazed, suddenly, by the caring tone of this 
teacher's voice.  Certainly he had heard it before, but only to 
himself and Giovani.  It was strange, and somehow wrong to hear 
these words directed at this other boy.  But it also seemed right 
somehow.  Giovani had been working on some new simple training 
pieces only last week, and Marc had been the first to sing them.  
Pietro decided it was right after all.
     And the time was drawing nearer.
     They all finished eating in silence.
     "I am done, Maestro, " Pietro said.
     "I'll take your plates, " Marc offered.
     The Maestro thanked the boy and patted his head, which had 
just begun to fill back in with hair.  The Headmaster had been 
after Marc for some time to do something with his unruly mop of 
black curls, and the little boy had taken it to heart by having his 
entire head completely shaved.  He looked a bit silly.
     "I tell him to get a boy's haircut because he looks like a 
girl and what does he do to me ?" the Maestro announced, trying to 
sound as tragic as possible.
     Marc blushed a bit and hurried off with the dirty plates as 
the Maestro picked Pietro up and carried him outside to await the 
coach.

     The church was not filled to capacity, in fact, it was hardly 
a quarter filled.  Giovani had been an orphan, after all, and most 
of those in attendance were from the conservatorio.  Pietro had 
been left in an alcove just off the stage to rest, more for show 
than anything, and the students and staff of the conservatorio 
drifted in in small groups.  The choirboys had assembled in the 
box, and were studying their music sheets one final time.  The 
priest, one Father Carlo Fellini, the same one who had seen them 
off only a few nights before, was to officiate; he was talking with 
the Maestro and Headmaster as Pietro peeked out of his alcove.  
There were also a few officers in attendance, ever wary for any 
sign they might find.
     But it was the closed casket that held Pietro's attention.  
Giovani, they had said, was torn to pieces.  Roberto had told him 
otherwise, but still - there was a lack of closure somehow.  Pietro 
so desperately wanted to see the boy who had been a brother to him 
one last time.  He cried a bit, softly, and as he wiped his eyes on 
the sleeve of his black robe, he heard a faint voice whisper, "No, 
Pietro, you don't want to see him.  Remember him as he was . . . 
and sing for him . . . " 
      The voice was Roberto's, and Pietro gasped.  Certainly 
Roberto was asleep, hidden in the conservatorio somewhere.  A calm 
suddenly fell over Pietro as he began to feel detatched from his 
surroundings.  His nervousness at singing in public was gone now, 
and there was only determination left.  Determination to move those 
few people in attendance to something they had never felt before.  
He would sing, and they would not forget it.
     He would raise his voice up so that even the saints in Heaven 
would hear him and take notice.
     Pietro was ready.
     The Maestro was on his way to the organ to play for the 
choir's invocation.
     The Priest was in place at his pulpit.
     The Headmaster was sitting with the non-singing students on 
the front row.
     Giovani was in his coffin, his soul departed for a better 
place.
   
     And Roberto was asleep under Pietro's bed, having pulled the 
shades down, wrapped in a dark colored blanket and crying.

     The sun had just risen to the point of noonday when the choir 
began to sing.  He let his mind drift, and found himself humming 
along with them.  The song that Roberto had taught him, no - more 
like 'given' him, was also running through his mind.  He could hear 
the organ playing, the Maestro's skilled hands flying over the keys 
to bring forth the most of the instrument.  The soft, high voices 
of the boys in the choir, trained well enough for church singing, 
rose to fill the sanctuary with a relaxing sound that brought back 
the sorrow over Giovani's death.  But Pietro swallowed his own pain 
and thought of Roberto.
     The priest took his place in the pulpit as the choir sat 
down.  He spoke of life, naturally, and quoted the usual scriptures 
about death having no real power.  He then went on to speak of 
Giovani, his life and his dreams, and his untimely demise.  Pietro 
sighed as the obvious was stated over and over.  
     And then he introduced Pietro, making much over the fact that 
the boy was ill and risking his own life to be with them, all for 
the sake of the memory of his friend.
     If he only knew, Pietro thought.
     Straightening his robe and checking his red sash, Pietro 
stepped from the alcove to the center of the stage.   He stood in 
front of Giovani's closed casket, and ran one small hand over the 
polished wood.  The conservatorio had spared no expense for its 
star composing student.  Certainly, Giovani had sold enough of his 
work and skill of hand in copying to have paid it all himself.
     There was to be no music, the priest had said.  The song would 
be a capella, which was odd, but interesting.  The title of the 
song was also secret, and the audience, still in sorrow to be sure, 
was no doubt curious.  The Maestro had pushed his bench back from 
the organ and sat staring at Pietro.
     The young castrato did not return his gaze.
     Then he began.
     The song started off softly, and sounded as if it were in 
Latin.  But it was Latin and something else so old that no one 
could really recognize it.  A few key phrases were familiar as 
Pietro's voice began to grow in power, mimicking perfectly the 
painful tones that Roberto had uttered.  Pietro felt himself 
becomming one with the sound of his own voice.  It was as if his 
own miraculously healed body were falling away, and only the sound 
remained to carry his consciousness on up to Heaven . . . where 
Giovani surely was.
     The choirboys were weeping openly as Pietro went into the 
second verse, his mind filled with the memory of the night that he 
and Giovani had performed there - the memory of the song that had 
secured his castration, and in a way, Giovani's death.  But all of 
that was past now.  There was only Roberto's song, the vampire 
castrato's lonliness, and his terrible pain that was so very much 
like unto Pietro's.  The end of the second verse had left the 
priest pale and shaken, trembling on his bench behind the pulpit.  
The Maestro sat behind the silent organ, his mouth hanging open and 
his brow sweaty.
     Still, Pietro went on.  He was bodiless now, oblivious to the 
stares of the audience.  His voice was louder than ever, filling 
the church and passing through the sunlit windows of stained 
glass.  People on the street outside were stopping, and a few 
strangers had ventured into the back door to stand and look.
     The final verse was nearly over when the feeling flooded 
through Pietro so utterly, so unexpectedly, that it nearly 
destroyed him.  As his voice cried out of suffering and pain too 
horrible to imagine, in a language no one could totally understand, 
he knew.  He knew of Roberto's life and the song and what the 
vampire castrato had paid to learn it . . . he knew the pain of 
never seeing the sun, of sleeping in cold and damp places, hidden 
from the light of day.  He knew of the lonliness that was beyond 
lonliness and that which bordered on horror.
     Pietro was gone, replaced by something that was not human.
     Roberto is not human, the thought flashed into his mind.
     And as his voice rose to heights that brought the Maestro to 
his feet to run and embrace Pietro's trembling body, the windows of 
stained glass suddenly blew outwards in thousands of multi-colored 
shards to fall upon the passers-by in the street below.
     
     Back at the conservatorio, Roberto still cried in his sleep 
and murmured, "Please, Pietro, please don't send me away !"

     The Maestro Lorenzo Penzatti was sobbing openly as Pietro 
finished his last note and collapsed, senseless, into the arms of 
the man who loved him like a son.

     Father Carlo the priest, whose name Pietro could never 
remember, was clutching his chest and gasping, trying to make the 
sign of the cross.

     Several of the choirboys had fainted, and the other students 
were stunned into motionlessness.

     The Headmaster was praying desperately, gasping for every 
syllable.

     Giovani was gone . . . utterly gone from the world, carried 
away by the castrato Pietro's voice and the song of Roberto the 
vampire.

     Roberto was sleeping soundly, at last.