Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice

off their salutes with flags unfurling.
    And finally all the fleet of patricians advanced towards the lighthouse of the Lido.
    Cries, waving, chattering, laughter, it was a great lovely roar in his ears.
    But nothing surpassed the cry that went up when the Doge had cast his ring into the water. All the bells of the island rang, the trumpets blasted; thousands upon thousands cheered at the top of their voices.
    It seemed the whole city was afloat, roaring in one great communal cry, and then it broke up, boats turning back to the island by whichever way they chose, great trains of silk and satin spread out behind them to float on the water. It was chaotic, it was mad, it was dazzling. The sun blinded Tonio; he raised his hand to shield his eyes as Alessandro steadied him. The Lisani came alongside, their gondoliers in rose-colored garments, their servants pitching white blossoms into their wake, as Catrina threw kisses with both hands, her dress of silver damask ballooning out behind her.
    It was enough in itself. He was spent and almost dizzy and felt he wanted to retreat to some little shady corner of the world just to savor it.
    What more could happen? And when Alessandro told them they were now going to the Doge’s feast at the Palazzo Ducale he was almost laughing.
    Hundreds were seated at the long white-draped tables; a fortune in wax blazed over the heavy silver carving of the candelabra while servants streamed through the doors carrying elaborate dishes on giant trays—fruits, ices, steaming platters of meat—and along the walls the common people poured in to observe the never-ending spectacle.
    Tonio could scarce taste anything; Marianna was whispering every moment of what she saw, who was this, who was that, Alessandro’s low voice giving her all the news of the world that was splendid and full of friendly marvels. The wine went at once to Tonio’s head. He saw Catrina across a great pale and smoky gulf, beaming at him, her blond hair a mass of thick and perfectly formed little curls, her heavy bosom adorned with diamonds.
    She had a painterly blush to her cheeks which made the ideal beauties of paintings seem real to him suddenly; she was overblown, glorious.
    Alessandro meantime was so at ease; he cut the meat on Marianna’s plate, moved the candles when they blinded her, never turning completely away from her. Perfect cavalier servente, Tonio was thinking.
    But watching him, Tonio felt the old mystery of eunuchs return. He hadn’t thought of it in years. What did Alessandro feel? What was it like to be him? And even as he felt himselfmagnetized by Alessandro’s languid hands and half-mast lids, that miraculous grace with which he managed the smallest gesture, he felt an involuntary shudder. Does he never hate it? Is he never consumed with bitterness?
    The violins had started again. A great roar of laughter had broken out at the head table. Signore Lemo passed, nodding quickly.
    The carnival was beginning. Everyone was rising to go into the piazza.
    Magnificent paintings were mounted for all to see, the wares of the goldsmiths and glassblowers flashed and glittered in the light that flooded from the open cafés where people crowded to take chocolate, wine, ices. The shops were aglow with frothy chandeliers and splendid fabric exhibited for sale as the people themselves made up a gleaming mass of the most dazzling satin, silk, and damask.
    The giant piazza stretched into infinity. The light glared as if it were high noon, and over all, the round arched mosaics of San Marco gave off a dim sparkle as if they were alive and bearing witness.
    Alessandro kept his charges close and it was he who led Marianna and Tonio into the small shop where they were at once outfitted with their bautas and dominoes.
    Tonio had never actually worn the bauta, the birdlike mask of chalk-white cloth that covered not only the face, but the head as well in its black mantle. It smelled strange to him, closing over his eyes and nose; he