la voce dell'angelo

Sometimes they just come. A note, a name, anything, really- and a character springs into being. That's how he came along.

Watch me sing, you, fools. Ludicrous, pompous, arrogant, rich, pampered, lustful.

Watch me sing, you, idiots. Soar with me toward heavens, let my voice carry your pitiful woes to God's merciful ear, let him figure out what to do with you.

Watch me sing, adore me. Let me bask in your admiration, in your desire, in your unending love. Let yourself be lied to, let yourself go - and let me break free, at least in singing.

Watch me sing, hear me fly- so far from you, so high, that your faces are but tiny sequins on the horizon.

Watch me now, you, my adoring crowd, and let me triumph once more as I know you better than you know yourselves. To me, you are transparent, small, to me you are nothing. Oh how I despise you, with your lustful thoughts, your dreams full of my voice, full of me.

Watch me sing. Wonder, wander and get lost. In me. In my voice. Let me transport you there, just to leave you there.

Watch me. You think it's easy, singing like that. Il voce angelico, I hear you whisper. Am I an angel to you? You think it's easy being me?

Watch me sing. Let my pain wash over you and drown you. I, a child lost, a child robbed of childhood and joys, a lonely child forced to practice his singing for hours on end, a child that will never grow up, a man that will never be a man - you think it's easy to be me?..

Watch me sing. Want me. Desire me. Let me be fooled. Let me feel needed. Just for once, let me believe in freedom, just for once, let me be naive. Let me believe- and tear my misery out of me.

Watch me sing. Make my loss count. Make my pain count. Let me forget what I've lost.

Watch me sing. Watch me soar.

And let me hate you.

I.

In my native village, they used to say, chi male non fa, male non ha - he who does no harm, is unharmed- and I believed it. You would have, if you grew up there, among the peasants, honest but poor as the church mice, who hung on to the words of priests and monks, seeing nothing but their chores and church services, knowing nothing but crops, flicks and saints.

My parents were no different, and although they were a God-fearing couple, their faith gave them little solace. My father tended cattle, my mother was a spinner and a weaver. Despite hard work and nine pregnancies, she was a woman of rare beauty, and my father was, as I now think, secretly proud of having her, himself being quite plain.

I, a second child and a first son, was undoubtedly a favourite, until my siblings came along. Then my mother's attention drifted towards them, quite naturally, and I ended up befriending our village priest, who taught me to read, write and even- a thing unheard in the village - music.

I was nine, and my voice was still of a child, crystal clear, with much promise, and Father Benedetto anticipated my triumphant enrolment in school somewhere in Naples or even Rome, but his plans were not to come true.

II.

That summer everything unravelled, came apart and changed forever, although I had no clue about it yet, helping my father with the flocks.

A man, all in black, rode by, and stopped. Was it our dialect, or our voices, or the song I sang or sheep? He eyed me intently, and I didn't like it. He gestured at my father to come closer, And asked him something. My father shook his head. The stranger produced a black leather pouch from his cloak, and gave it to my father, who weighted it in his hand. Then he looked at me. I stood there, frozen to the spot, unable to move. Father shook his head again, and tried giving the pouch back. The man in black refused.

‘ Think again. Talk to your…donna’ he said. ‘She might have a different view'.

His voice was tense, and I deduced he was a foreigner of sorts.

‘Signor can come and talk to her himself ‘ my father said at last ‘If he wants’.

‘Signor shall’ the stranger said courteously, mounted his horse and trotted off, leaving us in the fields.

‘What did he want, Papa?’

‘He decided he could take you away from us,Pierino. He decided, this pazzo that he could just come here and buy you off us.’

‘What did I do, Papa?’

My father smiled wistfully and ruffled my hair.

‘You did nothing, ragazzo. He liked your song, that's all.’

‘You won't sell me, will you, Papa?’

My voice trembled as I asked.

‘I will never do anything to harm you, my boy. That's all you need to know.’

He didn't say no. He didn't say no. The thought rang in my mind like a devil-ridden bell. He didn't say no.