The Glassblower of Murano

Marina Fiorato

For Conrad, Ruby and, most of all, Sacha;
you are all in this book somewhere.

As Corradino Manin looked on the lights of San Marco
for the last time, Venice from the lagoon seemed to him
a golden constellation in the dark blue velvet dusk. How
many of those windowpanes, that adorned his city like
costly gems, had he made with his own hands? Now they
were stars lit to guide him at the end of the journey of
his life. Guide him home at last.

As the boat drew into San Zaccaria he thought not - for
once - of how he would interpret the vista in glass with
a pulegoso of leaf gold and hot lapis, but instead that he
would never see this beloved sight again. He stood in the
prow of the boat, a brine-flecked figurehead, and looked
left to Santa Maria della Salute, straining to see the whitedomed bulk looming in its newness from the dark. The
foundations of the great church had been laid in 1631, the
year of Corradino's birth, to thank the Virgin for delivering
the city from the Plague. His childhood and adulthood had kept pace with the growing edifice. Now it was complete, in 1681, the year of his death. He had never seen
its full splendour in daylight, and now never would. He
heard a traghetto man mournfully calling for passenger trade
as he traversed the Canal Grande. His black boat recalled
a funeral gondola. Corradino shivered.

He considered whether he should remove his white bauta
mask as soon as his feet touched the shore; a poetic moment
- a grand gesture on his return to the Serenissima.

No, there is one more thing I must do before they find me.

He closed his black cloak over his shoulders against the
darkling mists and made his way across the Piazzetta under
cover of his tricorn and bauta. The traditional tabarro costume, black from head to foot save the white mask, should
make him anonymous enough to buy the time he needed.
The bauta itself, a spectral slab of a mask shaped like a
gravedigger's shovel, had the short nose and long chin
which would eerily alter his voice if he should speak. Little
wonder, he thought, that the mask borrowed its name from
the `baubau', the `bad beast' which parents invoked to terrify their errant children.

From habit borne of superstition Corradino moved swiftly
through the two columns of San Marco and the San Teodoro
that rose, white and symmetrical, into the dark. The Saint
and the chimera that topped their pediments were lost in
the blackness. It was bad luck to linger there, as criminals were executed between the pillars - hung from above or
buried alive below. Corradino made the sign of the cross,
caught himself, and smiled. What more bad luck could
befall him? And yet his step still quickened.

There is one misfortune that could yet undo me: to be prevented
from completing my final task.

As he entered the Piazza San Marco he noted that all that
was familiar and beloved had taken on an evil and threatening cast. In the bright moon the shadow of the Campanile
was a dark knife slashing across the square. Roosting pigeons
flew like malevolent phantoms in his face. Regiments of
dark arches had the square surrounded - who lurked in
their shadows? The great doors of the Basilica were open;
Corradino saw the gleam of candles from the golden belly
of the church. He was briefly cheered - an island of brightness in this threatening landscape.

Perhaps it is not too late to enter this house of God, throw myself
on the mercy of the priests and seek sanctuary?

But those who sought him also paid for this jewelled shrine
that housed the bones ofVenice's shrivelled Saint, and tiled
the walls with the priceless glittering mosaics that now
sent the candlelight out into the night. There could be no
sanctuary within for Corradino. No mercy.

Past the Basilica then and under the arch of the Torre dell'Orologio he hurried, allowing himself one more
glance at the face of the huge clock, where tonight it
seemed the fantastical beasts of the zodiac revolved in a
more solemn measure. A dance of death. Thereafter
Corradino tortured himself no more with final glances,
but fixed his eyes on the paving underfoot. Even this
gave him no respite, for all he could think of was the
beautiful tessere glasswork he used to make; fusing hot
nuggets of irregular glass together, all shapes and hues,
before blowing the whole into a wondrous vessel delicate
and colourful as a butterfly's wing.

I know I will never touch the glass again.

As he entered the Merceria dell'Orologio the market traders
were packing away their pitches for the night. Corradino
passed a glass-seller, with his wares ranked jewel-like on
his stall. In his mind's eye the goblets and trinkets began
to glow rosily and their shapes began to shift - he could
almost feel the heat of the furnace again, and smell the
sulphur and silica. Since childhood such sights and smells
had always reassured him. Now the memory seemed a
premonition of hellfires. For was hell not where traitors
were placed? The Florentine, Dante, was clear on the subject. Would Corradino - like Brutus and Cassius and Judas
- be devoured by Lucifer, the Devil's tears mingling with
his blood as he was ripped asunder? Or perhaps, like the
traitors that had betrayed their families, he would be encased for all eternity in `... un lago the per gelo avea di vetro e non
d'acqua sembiante ... a lake that, frozen fast, had lost the
look of water and seemed glass' Corradino recalled the
words of the poet and almost smiled.Yes, a fitting punishment - glass had been his life, why not his death also?

Not if I do this last thing. Not if I am granted absolution.

With a new urgency he doubled back as he had planned
and took the narrow bridges and winding alleys or calles
that led back to the Riva degli Schiavone. Here and there
shrines were set into the corners of the houses - welltended flames burned and illumined the face of the
Virgin.

I dare not look in her eyes, not yet.

At last the lights of the Orphanage at the Ospedale della
Pieta drew near and as he saw the candlelight warmth he
heard too the music of the viols.