menace.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Tonio said, or so it seemed he was saying. He was having all the discomfort of a debilitating headache save the pain itself, and an instinctive loyalty was collecting in him. This man meant him harm. He knew it. “I’m the son of Andrea Treschi, Signore, and I have no brother. And if you would make yourself known…”
“Ah, but you do know me, Tonio. Think back. As for your brother, I was with him in Istanbul only recently. He is hungry for news of you; he asks are you well, have you grown tall. Your resemblance to him is nothing short of remarkable.”
“Excellency, you must excuse us,” Alessandro said almost rudely. It seemed he would stand between the man and Tonio if he could.
“I’m your cousin, Tonio,” said the man with that same conscious look of grim indignation. “Marcello Lisani. And it saddens me to have to tell Carlo you know nothing of him.”
He turned back to the shop, glancing over his shoulder to Alessandro. And then he said under his breath: “Damned insufferable eunuchs.”
Tonio winced. It was full of contempt, like saying “sluts” or “bitches.”
Alessandro merely lowered his eyes. He appeared to freeze, and then his mouth moved in a slight, patient smile. He touched Tonio’s shoulder, gesturing to a café under the arcade.
Within minutes they were seated on the rough benches right near the edge of the piazza, the sun cutting under the deep arch to make them warm, and Tonio was only vaguely sensible that this had been his dream, to sit and drink in a café where gentlemen and ruffians rubbed elbows.
At any other moment the exquisite little girl approaching them would have shaken him deliciously. She had that brownhair streaked with gold which he found inexpressibly beautiful, and eyes it seemed of the same dark and light mixture.
But he hardly noticed her. Angelo was saying the man was a lunatic. Angelo obviously had never heard of him.
And Alessandro was already making a polite conversation about the lovely weather. “You know the old joke,” he said to Tonio confidentially and lightly, just as if this man had not insulted him, “if the weather’s bad, and the
Bucintoro
sinks, the Doge might be thrown right in bed with his wife for once to consummate the marriage.”
“But who was the man and what was he talking about!” Angelo said under his breath. He mumbled something about patricians who didn’t wear their proper robes.
Tonio was staring straight forward. The lovely little girl drifted into his view. She was coming right towards him with the wine on the tray, and she chewed a little wad of taffy right in rhythm with the swing of her hips, and smiled at the same time with a natural good humor. As she set down the cups, she bent over so far that under the soft ruffle of her low-cut blouse he saw both her pink nipples! A little riot of passion broke out in him. At any other moment, at any other time…but it was as if this were not even happening; her hips, the exquisite nakedness of her arms, and those pretty, pretty eyes. She was no older than he was, he reasoned, and there was about her something that suggested she might suddenly, for all her seductiveness, start giggling.
“And why would he concoct such foolishness!” Angelo was going on.
“Oh, we should leave it, don’t you think?” said Alessandro softly. And he opened the English papers and asked Angelo whether the opera had ever held any attraction for him.
“Wickedness,” Angelo murmured. “Tonio,” he said, forgetting the proper address as he often did when they were alone, “you didn’t know that man, did you?”
Tonio stared at the wine. He wanted to drink it, but it seemed quite impossible to move.
And for the first time, he looked up to Alessandro. His voice was small and cold when it came out:
“Do I have a brother in Istanbul?”
9
I T WAS PAST MIDNIGHT . Tonio was standing in the vast damp hollow of the Grand Salon, and having closed the
“You’ve made a mistake,” Tonio said, or so it seemed he was saying. He was having all the discomfort of a debilitating headache save the pain itself, and an instinctive loyalty was collecting in him. This man meant him harm. He knew it. “I’m the son of Andrea Treschi, Signore, and I have no brother. And if you would make yourself known…”
“Ah, but you do know me, Tonio. Think back. As for your brother, I was with him in Istanbul only recently. He is hungry for news of you; he asks are you well, have you grown tall. Your resemblance to him is nothing short of remarkable.”
“Excellency, you must excuse us,” Alessandro said almost rudely. It seemed he would stand between the man and Tonio if he could.
“I’m your cousin, Tonio,” said the man with that same conscious look of grim indignation. “Marcello Lisani. And it saddens me to have to tell Carlo you know nothing of him.”
He turned back to the shop, glancing over his shoulder to Alessandro. And then he said under his breath: “Damned insufferable eunuchs.”
Tonio winced. It was full of contempt, like saying “sluts” or “bitches.”
Alessandro merely lowered his eyes. He appeared to freeze, and then his mouth moved in a slight, patient smile. He touched Tonio’s shoulder, gesturing to a café under the arcade.
Within minutes they were seated on the rough benches right near the edge of the piazza, the sun cutting under the deep arch to make them warm, and Tonio was only vaguely sensible that this had been his dream, to sit and drink in a café where gentlemen and ruffians rubbed elbows.
At any other moment the exquisite little girl approaching them would have shaken him deliciously. She had that brownhair streaked with gold which he found inexpressibly beautiful, and eyes it seemed of the same dark and light mixture.
But he hardly noticed her. Angelo was saying the man was a lunatic. Angelo obviously had never heard of him.
And Alessandro was already making a polite conversation about the lovely weather. “You know the old joke,” he said to Tonio confidentially and lightly, just as if this man had not insulted him, “if the weather’s bad, and the
Bucintoro
sinks, the Doge might be thrown right in bed with his wife for once to consummate the marriage.”
“But who was the man and what was he talking about!” Angelo said under his breath. He mumbled something about patricians who didn’t wear their proper robes.
Tonio was staring straight forward. The lovely little girl drifted into his view. She was coming right towards him with the wine on the tray, and she chewed a little wad of taffy right in rhythm with the swing of her hips, and smiled at the same time with a natural good humor. As she set down the cups, she bent over so far that under the soft ruffle of her low-cut blouse he saw both her pink nipples! A little riot of passion broke out in him. At any other moment, at any other time…but it was as if this were not even happening; her hips, the exquisite nakedness of her arms, and those pretty, pretty eyes. She was no older than he was, he reasoned, and there was about her something that suggested she might suddenly, for all her seductiveness, start giggling.
“And why would he concoct such foolishness!” Angelo was going on.
“Oh, we should leave it, don’t you think?” said Alessandro softly. And he opened the English papers and asked Angelo whether the opera had ever held any attraction for him.
“Wickedness,” Angelo murmured. “Tonio,” he said, forgetting the proper address as he often did when they were alone, “you didn’t know that man, did you?”
Tonio stared at the wine. He wanted to drink it, but it seemed quite impossible to move.
And for the first time, he looked up to Alessandro. His voice was small and cold when it came out:
“Do I have a brother in Istanbul?”
9
I T WAS PAST MIDNIGHT . Tonio was standing in the vast damp hollow of the Grand Salon, and having closed the
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