Immortal Castrati part 2

part 2, think FARINELLI meets INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE

back to index

  IMMORTAL CASTRATI  

 
 
   
 
     -2-

     Dumbly, Pietro nodded and pushed the window fully open.  The 
boy stood up on the limb, and appeared to take a step that Pietro 
just knew would send him tumbling to the ground (and likely to a 
broken bone as well) .  Suddenly, this strange child was standing 
in the room next to him.  Pietro swallowed hard and shook his head, 
but when he opened his eyes, the boy was still there.
     "So much for the opium excuse," Pietro said.
     But this new arrival did not laugh at the joke.  He merely 
stood there, looking all around the room.  He was the same heighth 
as Pietro, and obviously very close to the same age.  As he began 
to move around the small room, studying everything, Pietro noticed 
that he moved with a fluid grace, almost like a dancer.  What 
really stood out was his skin, however.  It was so pale, and not 
even the glow of the lamp seemed to give it any color.  His hair 
was also white, and thick, not reflecting any of the warm glow.  
The room seemed to be growing colder, and Pietro shiverred in his 
nightshirt and closed the window.
     "You will catch a chill if you don't cover up or put on some 
more clothes, " the strange boy stated.
     "Sorry, I'm a little distracted, " Pietro replied, "I just 
killed my best friend last night."
     He was surprised by how easily he had said it.  The pain was 
still incredible, and he felt the tears welling up in his eyes.  He 
did not, however, begin to fully cry.  The emotion passed, leaving 
him startled at it.
     "You get used to it, " the strange boy said coldly, turning to 
face Pietro, "that's better.  Such emotional outbursts are so 
tiring, and I've tired myself out a lot today."
     Pietro could see the tear stains on the boy's face, and 
realized that this was the source of the crying he had been 
hearing.  He also saw that boy's eyes were a pale grey, utterly 
devoid of color.  Pietro shiverred again and stared.  Something was 
wrong here.
     "The name's Roberto, by the way, nice to meet you, Pietro."  
The pale boy offered his hand, and, haltingly, Pietro shook it.  
The pale white skin was so cold to the touch.  
     "Are you sure you're fully awake ?" Roberto asked.
     Pietro just stared at him, the pieces slowly falling into 
place, but with far too many questions remaining unanswered.  Then 
Pietro noticed the boy's clothing. 
     Roberto was wearing a long black robe with a red sash and soft 
black slippers.  His pale white hair was pulled back and tied in a 
ponytail that reached to between his shoulder blades.
     "You're a castrato, " Pietro blurted out.
     Roberto faced him, looked down at his own robe, and then 
looked up at Pietro.  "And so are you, now, " he replied.
     Pietro knew then that something wasn't right.  If Roberto was 
a castrato, wearing the robe and sash, then he was obviously away, 
at night, from his own conservatorio and Maestro.  There also 
wasn't another conservatorio in the area within walking distance, 
not for at least three days, and then only by horse.  Why had he 
come here, and why at night ?  What did he want, and why did he 
look so strange ?
     About then, a sharp pain shot up through Pietro's groin and 
doubled him over.
     "I know how that feels, " Roberto mused, "I think you need to 
go back to bed."
     Pietro was crying now, the pain combined with the fact that he 
would be in no shape to attend Giovani's funeral, much less sing.  
He didn't know what to do, so he let Roberto help him back to bed.  
"You've only been asleep all day, you idiot.  They cut you around 
Noon, and it's on towards Midnight now.  Drink that water in the 
glass like you were supposed to and sleep some more.  You'll make 
it to the funeral, I'll see to that.  Trust me."
     "How do you know of that ?" Pietro demanded.
     "You just thought about it and mentioned his death, that was 
enough, " Roberto replied.
     Pietro took the glass from Roberto's pale, cold hand drank it 
down.  The strange boy took the glass back, pulled the covers up 
over Pietro, and slapped the sleeping Frederico across the cheek.  
"Wake up and get out of here, you chunk !"  He shouted.  
     Frederico opened his eyes, seeing nothing, and made his way 
out the door.
     "Don't worry about him, he won't remember a thing," Roberto 
promised.
     But Pietro was already asleep, so Roberto picked up 
Frederico's Latin text and sat humming a strange hymn as he read.  
The rhythym and tone were very old, and the sounds impressed 
themselves thru the fog of the opium onto Pietro's memories.  
Roberto read through the book in a few minutes, sat it down, and 
began to sing softly a funeral dirge that had not been heard in 
that part of the world for at least a century.
     "Sleep, my friend, " Roberto whispered in Pietro's ear, "sleep 
the sleep of sweet dreams and forget your pain and loss.  It wasn't 
your fault, Giovani's death.  It was mine !"

     The Maestro was standing over Pietro's bed as the boy awoke 
around Noon the next day.  He had interrogated Frederico 
mercilessly that morning, and had been satisfied that the hefty 
young eunuch had done a good job in tending to Pietro; for his 
services, Frederico had been given the day off to amuse himself as 
he saw fit.  Images of the chunky castrato hitting the pastry shops 
in town filled the Maestro's head, and he made a mental note to 
consult the doctor again.  Frederico was getting too heavy for his 
own good, but that sometimes happened with eunuchs, no matter when 
they were cut.  The Maestro sighed and returned his attention to 
Pietro.
     He looked so weak and pathetic lying there in bed, so 
helpless.  
     But the Maestro knew better.  The light had come back into 
Pietro's eyes, that cold light of determination that said that he 
was going to start argueing at any minute.  He knew the look of 
love when he saw it in someone's eyes, having seen it in Pietro's 
and Giovani's so many times; he was sure that they had seen it in 
his own eyes as well.  Marc, for all his usual little-boy-faults, 
had that look all the time.  This thought brought a smile to his 
face.   He was so fond of these boys, and now one was dead and one 
was lying in bed in pain.  Why had this happened, he wondered, and 
have I done the right thing ?
     Pietro looked him in the face, once more fully awake, and sat 
up.  Any moment, now, the Maestro thought to himself, get ready.  
"You need your bandages changed, boy," he began, trying to summon 
up his most stern teaching demeanor.  It would not come, though.  
He loved this boy too much and was hurting  too much himself to be 
brusque.
     "I can do it myself, " Pietro answered.
     "The doctor left me instructions, boy, and besides, I changed 
enough of your diapers when you were a baby - it's nothing I 
haven't seen before."
     Surprisingly, Pietro relented.  Actually, his thoughts were 
wandering as the Maestro removed the bandage and cleansed the 
area.  Pietro winced a few times, but the stitches were good and 
there was not yet any sign of infection around the red and slightly 
swollen scrotum.  The boy was staring out the window and did not 
hear the Maestro tell him stay in bed and read a book if he got 
bored.  It took a kiss on the forehead and a toussle of his wild 
blonde hair to get his attention.  "You really need a haircut, 
Pietro," the Maestro stated, as he left the room and closed the 
door.
     Pietro couldn't focus his mind, however.  Had last night been 
a dream ?  Who was this 'Roberto', the sickly looking castrato who 
roamed all over impossible distances at night ?  Why had he come 
here, and what did he want?  Had he even been real, or simply a 
figment of the opium induced sleep ?  Pietro shook his head and 
picked up a copy of some sheet music from his shelf by the bed.  
The first few notes on the yellowing page brought him out of his 
daze, however.
     The funeral !  It had to be tomorrow !  The music he had 
picked up was the same song he had sung in the church with Giovani 
playing . . . but he was unwell, he knew it.  Injured in body and 
sick in spirit, he began to cry once again, his tears falling onto 
the score and making the ink run.  He so desperately wanted to sing 
for his 'brother', the boy who was closer to him than anyone in 
life, and he realized that he could not.
     That realization was almost more than he could bear.
     "Why couldn't you have waited, " he demanded to the uncaring 
pages.
     
     He had eventually cried himself back to sleep that afternoon, 
having harshly dismissed any of the other boys who had come up to 
see him.  It was Marc who had reported this to the Maestro, who had 
in turn given instructions not to disturb Pietro anymore that day.  
Since it was warm and sunny outside, the Maestro also decided to 
take the choir outside to practice, hoping that the sounds of their 
singing would not make their way up to Pietro's room.  Too many of 
the boys who were not yet castrati were curious, and if there was 
anything Pietro did not need, it was questions; keeping them all 
busy was suddenly very important to the Maestro.
     The boys sang outside in the farthest reaches of the 
conservatorio's grounds all afternoon, closely watched by a few 
officers who had been assigned to stand guard until Giovani's 
murder could be solved.  They appeared distracted, however, paying 
more attention to the songs than to watching the grounds for signs 
of anything wrong.  Their eyes were on the boys, however, and the 
Maestro and Headmaster approved.  Certainly they were safe, at 
least in the daylight.
     The nights were worse though.  Even with officers patrolling 
the grounds and the doors bolted, no one really felt secure.  
Someone who killed was still out there.

     Someone who knew what the authorities could not figure out, 
however, was indeed already inside the conservatorio.  As the sun 
went down, he emerged from the basement and slipped up into 
Pietro's room.

     Roberto stood beside the sleeping boy's bed, noticing that 
Pietro had been crying again.  Roberto had felt it, even in his own 
haunted sleep, and knew that he had to do something.  The death of 
Giovani combined with Pietro's inability to attend the funeral was 
tearing the new castrato to pieces emotionally, and the emotional 
outpouring was tearing Roberto apart.  But it was always like this 
- cold, empty lonliness or the emotional onslaught of those close 
to him.  Roberto sighed. 
     He so desperately wanted a friend.  He had been alone for so 
long.  He tried to remember a time when he had been a normal, 
common peasant boy with a family.  The memory was so old, so faded, 
like a fine painting left hanging in the sun for too long.  It grew 
harder every day.  Roberto sighed and sat down in the chair next to 
Pietro's bed, waiting for him to wake up.  He had a plan, Roberto 
did, and he also had only about twelve hours to put it into action.
     He decided not to wait.  
     Roberto reached out and shook Pietro awake.  "Get up, " he 
ordered, " You and I have work to do."
     Pietro gasped and sat up quickly, staring at the castrato 
beside his bed.  His eyes were wide and his mouth hanging open.
     "Come on, let's move !  I hope you can get some sound out of 
that mouth of yours, otherwise, you're really in trouble !"
     "You're real !"  Pietro shouted.
     "Quiet down, you idiot, you'll wake the whole damn school !  
Of course I'm real !"
     "I thought you were a dream, or an opium hallucination," 
Pietro replied.
     "You're too damn smart for our own good, you know that ?"
     "WHO ARE YOU ?"  Pietro demanded.
     Roberto sighed and reached into the bureau.  When he turned 
back around, he tossed a black robe and red sash at Pietro.  "Get 
dressed, you and I are going out," the pale boy ordered.
     "I can't get up, remember?  Much as I want to, I can't.  The 
funeral's in the morning, too . . . "
     Pietro choked on the last words and Roberto felt the pain 
coming back.  
     "Now is NOT the time, " he snapped, "I can get you there in 
one piece, but you have to practice first."
     Pietro got up and pulled off his nightshirt.  He got dressed, 
and stood staring into his mirror at the small boy in black staring 
back at him.  One boy, not two.  
    He turned to face Roberto, who was standing right beside him.
     "Just call me 'Roberto', please.  I don't remember my last 
name anymore, it's been too long.  And please don't scream !"  The 
pale boy asked.  Pietro was trembling.
     He faced the mirror again.  Pietro was reflected in his fine 
black robe and shining satin red sash.
     Roberto was not.
     A wave of sudden fear welled up in Pietro as he realized what 
was happening.
      He heard a soft noise and turned to see Roberto sitting on 
the edge of the bed.  He was resting his head in his hands, his 
face covered.  "Please don't send me away," he begged, his previous 
bravado all but gone.
     "You're not from this school, " Pietro began, his mind racing, 
"and it's too far for you to walk from the next conservatorio to 
here every night.  You're staying here, somewhere.  And that thing 
with the window the other night, and Frederico, and the mirror . . 
. you're . . . . you're . . . ."  Pietro couldn't say it.
     "I am a castrato, " Roberto replied softly, "and I am lonely.  
Your torment drew me here like a lodestone draws metal.  We are of 
the same Mind, Pietro.  We are both driven by the music, and drawn 
to it.  You have your Maestro and the school,  I have no one.  No 
one, and it's been so very long !  You want me to say it ?  I'll 
say it then - I am a vampire !  An Immortal Castrato, singing only 
to himself and the creatures of the night !  I have the songs and 
dreams of the last century in my head, and no one to sing them to.  
I am one of the Damned, but not by my own choice.
     "I flee the sun, and watch the world sleep.  Every day I fall 
asleep somewhere dark and unknown, usually as close to a church or 
conservatorio as I can get.  I heard you sing in the church the 
other night from so far away that you couldn't believe it.  God, 
how I wanted to come in and join you - but I couldn't !  I was 
exhausted and starving by the time I got here, don't you see ?  
You're so damn smart, they say, figure it out . . . . please don't 
make me say it."
     Roberto was staring at him now, his eyes glowing a dull red 
that matched his sash.  His incisor teeth protruded down over his 
lower lip, which was trembling.  There were tears standing in his 
eyes, those red eyes, which looked sunken into his even paler 
face.  He looked nothing like the vampires of legend that Pietro 
had heard about, soulless bloodsucking monsters.  He looked 
pathetic.
     Pietro could not help but be moved, despite his own 
suffering.  Suddenly, he felt his mind open up to all the things he 
had never believed . . . anything was possible . . . there was 
nothing that he could not accomplish if he set his mind to it !  He 
felt the dull pain between his legs disappearing, and an elation he 
had never known before rising up within himself.  Something was 
happening.  The stiffness in his body that had come from lying in 
bed for two days was fading, and he could feel some sort of new 
energy flowing through him.  His and Roberto's eyes were locked on 
each other's now, and something was passing between them.  
Something impossible.
     And then it passed.
     Roberto looked down at the floor and let out an explosive 
breath which chilled the entire room.  The lamp sputtered and 
almost went out.  Then little vampire collapsed onto his side, 
trembling violently.  
     "What is it ? " Pietro demanded, going to Roberto's side and 
shaking him, "Are you alright ?"
     "No, " Roberto gasped, "No, I'm not alright.  I'm sorry, 
Pietro, more sorry than you can know, but it had to be done.  
Please . . . I have more to do for you, I must . . . just give me a 
moment."
     Pietro stared at the boy (or what was left of the boy he had 
once been) curled up in a ball on his bed.  He honestly did not 
know what to do, having only had proof that vampires indeed existed 
for all of about five minutes !  Then an idea came to him.  "Don't 
go anywhere, " he told Roberto, I'll be right back !"
     Roberto tried to smile up at him, but failed.
     
     Was it really possible ?  Pietro was running on instinct now, 
and acting on an idea that must have surely come from Roberto's 
mind and into his.  He ran through the sleeping conservatorio to 
the kitchens, trying not to make any noise.  If he were caught up 
out of bed, even though he felt perfectly fine, he would no doubt 
be in a great deal of trouble.  But a vampire, and in his own room 
?  A vampire that had been drawn to him ?  "Why me ?" Pietro 
mumbled, as he rummaged through the ice box, "And why 
now?"             
     Finally he found it - a large chunk of fresh beef that had 
brought in for dinner after Giovani's funeral.  There were always 
great meals after funerals, it seemed, and the cold meat had 
something that Pietro 'knew' that Roberto had to have.  He looked 
in the pan in which the meat was sitting and nodded.  There was a 
great deal of blood in the pan.
     Taking a wine glass from the cupboard, Pietro carefully filled 
it with all blood he could wring out of the cold meat and then 
raced back to his room.  He was careful not to spill any.  
     When he arrived, Roberto was stretched out on the bed with his 
hands folded on his chest.  Pietro gasped.  Roberto looked like a 
corpse.  Had Giovani been laid out so ?  Would he even see him 
tomorrow ?  Suddenly he realized that he could indeed go to the 
services, and that Roberto had given him of his own strength !  But 
what had it cost him, and why was the young vampire so sorry ?  
Sorry about what ?  But the questions would have to wait.  Right 
now, (he could feel it) Roberto was very close to . . . what ?  
Dying?  But vampires were supposed to be immortal until either 
staked through the heart or burned.  Pietro put the thought out of 
his mind and lifted Roberto's head off the pillow.  
     The dead-looking little castrato's lower lip was dropped just 
a bit, and his gleaming white fangs hung down to just touch it.  
Pietro carefully lifted the glass to Roberto's lips and tipped it.  
Seemingly revived a bit by the smell, Roberto drew in a breath and 
swallowed.  Pietro tipped the glass up a little more, pouring all 
of its contents into Roberto's mouth.  The vampire swallowed it all 
in one gulp, moaned a soft little sound, and opened his eyes.  
Slowly, very slowly, the red glow of those haunted eyes began to 
fade back to the pale gray that they had been.  He still looks like 
a corpse though, Pietro thought.
     "Thank you, " Roberto said very softly, "that will do for the 
moment."  Then, with a great effort, he sat up to stare out the 
window.
     "So, " Pietro began, somewhat at a loss for words, "what was 
that plan you were talking about before the mirror got in your way 
?"
     Roberto turned his gaze from the window to stare at Pietro.  
How alive he is, the vampire thought, how alive and so sure of 
himself!
     "You're well now, Pietro.  You're well and you're going to 
your friend's services in the morning.  How I wish I could go with 
you, but I cannot.  You can't know how I long to see the sun 
reflecting off the dew on the roses in the morning, or to see that 
light come pouring through this very window to shine on your face 
and awaken you.  It must look so grand . . . but, yes - we do have 
work to do.  Where was I ?"
     Pietro wasn't sure either.  "I think we were going out, " he 
offered.
     "Ahh, yes, we were.  I figure we've got about seven hours to 
sunrise, maybe six.  That isn't much time for me to teach you how 
to sing," Roberto stated.  He sounded very much the like the 
Maestro, Pietro thought.
     "Teach me to sing ?"  Pietro repeated, unsure of what Roberto 
meant.
     "It's the least I can do for you, and frankly, I'm surprised 
you haven't figured it out yet.  I guess I'm going to have to say 
it after all - you didn't 'kill' Giovani like you feel you did.  
You are not responsible, I AM !"
     Pietro felt his knees go suddenly weak.  Roberto had just 
admitted to killing the boy who had been like a brother to him !  
And now he wanted to repay that ?!  A terrible rage combined with 
the resurging sorrow and loss was building up in Pietro, and 
communicating itself to Roberto.  As the young castrato became more 
outraged, the vampire castrato seemed to become more tangible.  
Pietro could feel the emotion pouring out of him and into Roberto, 
and he was powerless to stop it.
    "Yeeeessss, " Roberto hissed, "Let it out !  Pour out your rage 
upon me, for the monster that I am, for what I have taken from you 
!  Hate me if you must, but let it out ! "
     Roberto was feeding on the emotion as much as he had fed upon 
the glass of blood.
     Pietro pulled in his thoughts, trying to get control of 
himself.  He ranged through his musical repretoire, singing aria 
after aria in his mind; it was the method he had been taught to 
calm himself.  Once again, it worked.  The emotional storm 
subsided.  
     Roberto seemed impressed.
     Then, suddenly, he laughed.  "Oh, yes, Pietro, there is fire 
in you alright !  Now that you're over the guilt part, would you 
like to really know what happened to your friend ?  Time is short . 
. . "