The Glassblower of Murano (11 page)

Corradino promised.

For the rest of the day Corradino watched as Giacomo
worked what seemed to be miracles in glass. To take an
unformed lump of matter and change it, like a conjuror
or alchemist, into such works of art seemed to Corradino
almost magical. He watched carefully each heating and
reheating, each spin of the rod, each tender breath filling
the belly of the red glass. He broke his promise many times
as he crowded Giacomo, until the kindly man began to
give him errands, and soon Corradino was as dirty as the
other boys. Soon, too soon, the shadows began to lengthen
in the doorway, and regretfully, Corradino supposed that
he must go. But just as he was about to voice his thought
a terrifying shape filled the doorframe.

It was a tall figure, black-cloaked and hooded, wearing
a black mask. But the figure held none of the jollity of
the Carnevale festivities. And when it spoke, its chilling
tones seemed able to freeze the furnaces themselves.

`I seek a noble boy. Corrado Manin. Is he here?'

Giacomo alone stopped his work, as the nearest to the
door. Glass-work was too precious, too easily ruined, to stop and stare. Even at this man, who was clearly someone
of importance. And so it proved.

`I am an emissary of the Consiglio Maggiore. I have a writ
to search for the boy.'

Giacomo subtly put his bulk between Corradino and
the figure. He scratched his head and spoke, to belie his
intelligence, in the wheedling tones of a peasant. `Gracious
Signore, the only boys we have are the garzoni. The scimmia
di vetro. There are no nobles here.' From the corner of his
eye Giacomo could see the opal buttons of Corradino's
coat winking in the furnace light, as if to betray their
young master to the dark phantom. Giacomo turned away
from the coat, hoping to draw the dark eyes of the mask
with him.

Sure enough, the chilling orbs held his gaze. `If you see
him, you have a duty to the State to inform the Council.
Is that clear?'

`Si Signore.'

`Just the boy, you understand. We have the rest of the
family.'

They have my family?

Giacomo heard the boy gasp and step from his shadow.
Instantly he turned and cuffed Corradino to the ground,
a stinging blow that burst his lip and gave him reason for
his tears. `Franco, for the last time, go and draw some water!
Che stronzo!' Giacomo turned back to the figure. `These boys, I tell you. I wish The Ten would send us some nobles
to work here. More brains, less thickheaded.'

The eyes in the masked face looked from Giacomo to
the boy on the floor. Filthy, shirtless, bleeding, snivelling.
A mere glass monkey. With a flounce of the black cloak,
the agent was gone.

Giacomo picked up the tear-sodden boy and cradled
him in his arms while he wept. Not just now, but for years
later, as his apprentice, living in his house, when Corradino
woke at night screaming.

In my dream my mother smells of vanilla and blood.

Giacomo never told the other maestri where his new garzon
was from. And he never told Corradino what his neighbour
told him of the fisherman's house where the Manin family
had been found. It was left as a warning - empty, no bodies,
but its white walls slick with blood from floor to ceiling,
like the scene of a butchery.

Of course, they found Corradino eventually. But it took
five years, and by that time Giacomo, now foreman of
the fornace, was able to plead for his apprentice's life in
front of the Council, in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio
of the Doge's Palace. He stood, tiny in the cavernous
rooms, beneath the riotous frescoes of red and gold, and
argued Corradino's case before The Ten. For the boy, at
the age of fifteen, was almost preternaturally talented.

He could already work with glass like no-one Giacomo
had seen.

The Council was disposed to keep Corradino alive. The
Manin family was no threat any more, it was practically
wiped out, and Corradino would be kept, like all other
maestri, a prisoner on Murano.

How were any of those gathered on that day, when
Giacomo pled for Corradino's life, to know that they were
wrong about the fortunes of the Manin family? How was
poor dead Corrado Manin to know that his family would
rise at last to greatness, and that one of his descendants would
occupy the throne of the Doge? And how were any of
them to know that Lodovico Manin would be the last
Doge ofVenice who would, in that very chamber, sign the
death warrant of the Republic? That when he put his hand
to the Treaty of Campo Formic, in 1797 the city would
be sold to Austria, and Manin's signature would sit below
that of Venice's new ruler, Napoleon Bonaparte?

If the Council had known, they would not have spared
Corradino Manin. But they did not know, and they did
spare him.

Not through the quality of mercy, but because of the
mirrors that he made.

Leonora got to the Cantina Do Mori at a quarter to three
on Saturday. As she looked at the frontage of the cafe with
its distinctive bottle-glass doors she wondered if she had
been the victim of an elaborate joke. Perhaps Officer
Bardolino was laughing at her with his workmates. Leonora
gave herself a little shake - this wasn't primary school. She
had been so affected by her situation at work that the
shoots of her paranoia were taking hold. The man seemed
to be in earnest - no doubt he would like to find a tenant
for his cousin. She would just go in and wait.

It was raining so the cafe was quite busy. But despite the
crowds Leonora found a quiet table at the back under a
huge double mirror. She admired the workmanship, and
the slightly greeny-gold look of old glass in its gilded
baroque frame. The bevel seemed perfect to her although
she knew the work must be centuries old. She ordered an
espresso and looked around at her leisure. The clientele today were clearly Venetian - the waiter had addressed her
in Veneziano, and she had surprised herself with the force
with which she replied in her fluent Italian, echoing his
local accent with her own. Once again she felt pleased
that Officer Bardolino had suggested this place. It was still
a secret well kept from the tourist hordes. Then it occurred
to her that he was, in a courteous way, attempting to give
her a treat.

If he shows up.

But she need not have worried. On the dot of three, with
the characteristic efficiency he had shown in her interview,
he walked through the doors. She was taken aback by the
fact that he was now in jeans and a smart jacket - more
as she had first seen him in Santa Maria della Pieta. Leonora
had somehow, ridiculously, pictured him turning up in
uniform. But he still recalled the painting - what was it?
- and turned the heads of a group of lunching ladies. With
a sort of shock, as he brushed the raindrops from his black
curls, Leonora faced the facts.

He's a very good-looking man. They all see it too.

She felt a whisper of fear.

He greeted her, sat, and summoned the waiter with practised ease. He shed his jacket, and settled back on the bench comfortably. He seemed to have a certain elegance
coupled with an ability to be instantly comfortable, like a
cat. Leonora smiled and waited for their discourse to begin.
She felt suddenly confident. Would he enter straight into
the business of the day or engage in pleasantries first?

`Why are you drinking coffee?'

Leonora laughed. His question seemed so incongruous
that it caught her by surprise.

`You are laughing at me,' he said, caught between amusement and annoyance.

`A little. Why shouldn't I drink coffee? Have I made
some sort of social faux pas?'

`No, no. I just wondered if you were . . .' he searched for
the word, `teetotal. Such a strange English word. I always
thought it meant one totally drank tea.'

Leonora smiled. `No, no, I drink. A lot. Well, not a lot.
But I do like my wine.!

'Good: He grinned. `Due ombre, per favore.' This to the
waiter who hovered at his shoulder.

`What's an ombra?'

Officer Bardolino grinned again. `A shadow.'

`I know what it means. But what is it when it's a
drink?'

`Don't worry. It's just a little cup of house wine. The
name is centuries old. There used to be wine carts in San
Marco in medieval days, and the wine merchants would
slowly move the carts all day to stay in the shadow of the
Campanile. To keep the wine cool.'

The waiter set down the cups on the dark wood board.
Leonora tasted the wine and felt that its flavours were
enhanced by the story. `I love tales like that. But I've not
been able to read a guidebook since I got here. It's almost
like I'm too busy seeing, and living, to read.'

Her companion nodded. `You are right. Better to find
these things out as you go, from those that live here.
Guidebooks are full of soundbites.'

She smiled to hear his opinions chiming with her own.
`Tell me more about this place.'

He returned the smile. `In a soundbite? Casanova used
to drink here.!

'Is that why you brought me here?'

I shouldn't have said that. How presumptuous and ... clumsy.
I'm behaving like a schoolgirl.

`You thought that was a line,' he said, with a perception which
surprised her. `I actually brought you here because of the glass.'
He indicated the mirror. `It is unique. This double-looking
glass is famous because it was the largest mirror made of its
time in which the panes are perfect twins. I thought it might
interest you, as you work on Murano'

I've misjudged him. Have I ruined the day by being flippant?
Should I tell him about Corradino?

'Officer ...'

`Please, for God's sake, call me Alessandro: The humour
was back, thankfully.

`I love it here, thank you.'

He smiled again, then resumed his businesslike mask.
`Did your fornace fill in the counterfoil of your form for
you?'

`Yes.' Adelino had obliged again.

`Then bring it by next week and we should be able to
wrap up this work permit. Then if you get a flat too, you
can get your permesso di soggiorno.' He waved away her
thanks.

After a pause, Leonora spoke. `Can I ask you a question?'

He nodded.

`It seemed to take you less time than the others. How
come?'

Alessandro stretched. `I detest paperwork, so my only
solution is to cut through it as quickly as possible. My
colleagues - they hate paperwork too, but their solution
is to bury it with more paper, to hope that it goes away.
See,' he dug out some papers from his pocket; `more efficiency.' He spread the papers on the table for her. She
could see they had photocopied pictures of houses and
details below, much like the information from an estate
agent. `My cousin, Marta, has given me the keys to these
four. We'll go and see, and if you like any, you can move
in tonight!

'Tonight?'

`You are surprised?'

Leonora shook her head, bemused.

`It's just that I've been trying to see apartments for a
month and there have always been delays, or problems, or
paperwork ...' This extraordinary man seemed to cut
through all of Venice's sedentary rhythms.

`Ah, that's what comes of knowing a local.' Alessandro
smiled. `Here's the one I think you should see first. It's
quite close to here.' He pointed to one of the four, two
rooms in a beautiful three storey house. She followed
Alessandro's finger.The address was printed clearly - Campo
Manin.

It was a top floor flat in a large, shabby, once-grand house.
Though modern in all other respects, she was intrigued
on entry by the original staircase that formed the axis for
all the apartments, now with ugly modern fire doors. It
was grand and beautifully worked. Leonora put out a hand
and touched the flaking, turquoise paint. When it and the
gilt was new, did family portraits stare down from these
walls, to watch the servants and masters mount and descend?
As if catching an echo she said, `Corradino?'

Alessandro was struggling with the latch of apartment
3C. `What?'

`Nothing.' It was too early to confess that her best friend
in all of Venice was a ghost. `I just wondered if any other
Manins had lived here.'

Alessandro shrugged, his mind on the door. `It's possible.

Very possible. Ah . . .'This as the door gave way and Leonora
followed him into the flat. It was plain, sparsely furnished,
but with two enormous windows which looked out onto
the campo, and best of all, a rickety spiral stair of wrought
iron which led onto a flat terrace, and the crazy rooftops
ofVenice all around. Leonora leant on the crumbling balustrade and gazed at the Campanile in the distance. She
could hear bells.

I want to live here. I knew as soon as I walked in the door.

Alessandro's no-nonsense approach to practicalities continued to astonish Leonora for the rest of the day. She
presumed her choice would result in a further couple of
weeks of negotiations, followed by a protracted moving-in
period. But Alessandro was on his mobile phone to his
cousin at once, speaking in rapid tones. They had barely
completed the tour of the rudimentary bathroom ('don't
expect hot water all the time; not in Venice,') when the
cousin - Marta - appeared. She was a businesslike, friendly
woman with glasses, short hair and none of the physical
beauties of her cousin. She sat with Leonora at the well
scrubbed table, on one of the odd chairs. By the time
Leonora had signed the twelvemonth lease, Alessandro had
contacted the storage company on Mestre and arranged
for an unheard-of Sunday delivery of Leonora's belongings
for the next day. Both cousins offered to be present to
help with the furniture, Leonora was given the key, and she and Alessandro went to her hotel to pack and check
out.

He seemed in no hurry to be elsewhere, nor did he
seem overly friendly in the odious way she had detected
in her colleagues - the friendship of men who want more.
They talked constantly as they walked and worked, mostly
of that holy Italian trinity - art, food and football. Once
her luggage was installed in her new flat, together with
some essential supplies for morning, she began to feel,
incredibly, that he was enjoying her company. Her pleasure
and confusion grew, as with the arrival of dusk he said,
with the brusque, no-nonsense manner she now recognized
as characteristic: `Shall we get a drink? We should celebrate.
I know a good place: