The Glassblower of Murano (13 page)

The man that murdered my family.

But surely Baccia had nothing to fear? He was a man of
the State through and through. Corradino knew that the
Council subsidized the rents of this plot, and that much
of the Republic's business was conducted at the Do Mori
under the mask of sociability. And yet Baccia did look -
yes, definitely, he looked ill at ease. The proprietario made
his way at last to Corradino and, at the greeting kisses,
Corradino could feel the film of perspiration on Baccia's
cheeks.

`Antonio?' said Corradino interrogatively as Baccia sat
heavily on the brocade couch opposite. `What's the purpose of this meeting? Not more mirrors to tip your cafe into
the realms of a brothel?'

Baccia looked positively ill as he leaned in to Corradino,
his breath heavy and laced with wine. `Corradino. Listen
well. Lean back in your seat for me.'

`What? ...' Corradino was perplexed, but at a fervent
nod from his friend he did as he was bid. He pushed his
shoulders back, further, further, until at last they met other
shoulders - of the patron sitting back to back with him
on the other side of the settle. At once Corradino made
as if to address the man, to excuse himself, but a voice
stopped him which was not Baccia's.

'No. Don't turn around. Eyes are upon us.!

The Italian was perfect, but had the Frankish accent that
took Corradino back twenty years to his French tutor. His
childhood flooded into his head like a blush as the blood
thrummed in his ears.

'Monsieur Loisy?' It was all he could do not to turn and
throw himself into the man's arms.

`No. My name is Duparcmieur. Gaston Duparcmieur. We
have never met. But in time you shall know me better.'
The voice had an authority, but was warmed with a touch
of amusement.

Corradino felt irritated at his mistake - as if he had
given himself away. He clothed his discomfort in anger
but something, still, kept him from turning round. With
his eyes on the discomfited Baccia he said sharply, `What's
this about? I will not place myself in danger.'

He felt the shoulders shift, and again, the amusement
and authority married in the voice of the Frenchman.
`Corradino, you have always been in danger. Since the day
that your uncle Ugolino betrayed you to The Ten and you
and your family flew for your lives. Did you know too
that it was your uncle who betrayed your family's whereabouts to the agents of the Republic? He sold the death
of your mother for his own safety, but in this he was
deceived - they took him too and left only you, my little
glassblower.'

Corradino leapt from his seat, and was immediately encircled firmly in the bearlike arms of Baccia. The proprietario
clasped him and kissed him again on both cheeks. Loudly
he bellowed; `That's settled then. Two more mirrors for the
salon. And they shall be works of art, just as you have made
before: He drew Corradino close and Corradino felt warm
breath on his ear as Baccia hissed; `Corradino, you must
listen to this man, do not rise or turn, do not give in to
your passions. This man can help you, but we are watched.
Be still. Sit and talk to him, as if you talk to me.'

Corradino sat slowly and tried to collect himself. What
did this mean? Could it be true of his uncle Ugolino, who
had loved him so well? That he was a traitor? A thousand
questions crowded his brain. The only one he could articulate was; `Who are you?'

`If you would know me, you may gaze into your own
mirror. But be swift, and secret:

Corradino slid his eyes left and met those of the man who sat behind him. He was dressed in wine velvet, in
the style of a doctor of Padua, and a long nosed, white,
medico mask lay in his lap. But the pointed beard and curled
moustaches were those of a French dandy. His eyes, as they
steadily held Corradino's, were of the grey slate that he
powdered and added to his marver for the semblance of
pewter. The Frenchman looked young, not much beyond
his middle years. Perhaps thirty like Corradino himself.

`You see, you and I are of an age,' said the Frenchman,
as if reading thought. `But our differences are more marked.
I love my country, as you have ceased to love yours. And
you can work the glass like an Alchemist trained by Angels.
And that is why I am here.'

`How do you know of my family?'

`You mentioned a man of my country that you loved
well. He is known to me also.'

`Monsieur Loisy? He lives?'

`He does not'The voice was brief. `He was betrayed and
the assassins found him. But not before he could tell us
of his extraordinary pupil. You see, he never lost his concern for you and your well-being. He made enquiries and
found that you lived, and were working on Murano. He
followed your progress, as did we. But those who seek can
also be found. His tracing of you led to the tracing of him.
He was found, and poisoned by The Ten as he visited these
shores hoping for sight of you.'

Corradino's head throbbed with his pulses and he could
barely draw breath. Sadness for Loisy, and love for his loyalty, could not be given space here as the questions
succeeded one upon the other. `How do you know this?'
`Because I was one of those that aided him.!

'And stood by as he was murdered?'

`Loisy was warned not to return here. He did not heed
my advice. You should not emulate him.'

Corradino held the eyes of the silent Baccia as his stomach
lurched. The treacherous coffee beans ground the humours
in his stomach and left a residue in his mouth - he tasted
them and this evil news together. His searching brain at last
found the needful question. `What do you want of me?'

`We want your skills. What else?'

`And who is We?'

`Myself, of course. But more importantly, His Majesty
King Louis XIV of France.'

Corradino choked. He stared into Baccia's bloodshot
orbs, traced the map of capillaries he saw there as if perusing
the royal bloodlines of France.

`What can you mean?'

`All will be told to you in time. But know this. We can
help you; give you the life you deserve, in Paris. You will
be feted as an artist, celebrated as a genius, not treated as
a menial slave as you are here. We can give you riches, and
nobility. Think of it - your country of Venice has used you
for her ends, to augment her beauty, but has given you
nothing. She has enslaved you - you, of the noble line of
Manin. Not only that, but she has taken your family from
you,' the voice paused, `nearly all your family.'

Corradino's head snapped left and again he met the
pewter eyes. What followed was little more than a whisper
from the Frenchman.

`You could bring her too.'

Leonora. He knows of Leonora.

`Don't decide now,' said the voice as Corradino turned away
in sick turmoil. `You must not tarry here or we will be discovered. Stay and talk with Signor Baccia. He will make all
seem as usual - he will order somewhat of you, and you must
take the measurements and write them in your vellum notebook
as you always do. Then leave, go back to Murano, and do
nothing. Presently your foreman will tell you of a commission
at the Old Theatre, and that you are to come to Venice to meet
with a Maestro Domenico about a candlebra. If you come to
this meeting you will see me again - I will be Maestro
Domenico, and I will tell you of the King's desires. If you
decide you want no more of this, plead of sickness and send
another in your place. We will not trouble you again.'

Corradino felt the shoulders shift as the Frenchman rose.
As Duparcmieur adjusted his cloak and mask he said, in a
final undertone, `Think on this, Corradino. What do you
owe your Republic of Venice? Why not begin again, in
France, with your daughter?'

Then, with a flourish, he was gone.

Corradino sat, as if stunned, as the proprietario went mechanically through his instructions for a mirror that would
never be made. Then he made his way through the crowds
of San Marco as if sleepwalking, while his ever-present
shadow followed him. In his stupor he almost wandered
towards San Zaccaria, to the Pieta, to tell Leonora. But he
checked himself. He must not risk it, not when the footsteps were following. He must not spoil it now.

Not now that there is a way for us to be together.

As soon as Leonora entered Adelino's office, and took the
proffered seat, she could tell that something was afoot. For
one thing, there was a large white flip chart obscuring the
beloved view across the lagoon. For another, two extra
chairs held a pair of fairly unusual and wholly unfamiliar
individuals. Adelino introduced them as `Chiara Londesa
and Semi, from the Attenzione! Agency in Milan' On
hearing the word `agency', Leonora knew she had not
imagined that exclamation mark. They were in advertising.

Warily, she eyed the strangers, as they eyed her back in the
planner of a couple examining a cut of meat before purchase. Chiara Londesa sported a cropped t-shirt featuring
a near-pornographic manga design. Her swarthy colouring
and calculating sloe eyes were offset by a shock of brutally
short peroxide hair. Her colleague Semi, who seemed to boast no surname, was even odder. From top to toe he
was dressed as the perfect English gentleman - Norfolk
jacket, severely knotted tie, and polished Lobb shoes. As
he leant forward Leonora could see - surely not? - the
glint of a fob watch and chain peeping from his pocket.
She fought the urge to laugh.

In the prolonged silence Semi rose and circled Leonora's
chair, stroking his chin in an affected gesture straight from
a James Mason movie. With the air of one selling his
daughter to white slavers Adelino said, `see? Didn't I tell
you?'

Semi, still circling, nodded. Expecting cut-glass Brideshead
tones, Leonora found his perfect Italian an audible shock.
`Si. Perfetto.'

Perfect for what?

Semi and Chiara, now ignoring Leonora, began to converse
passionately in urbane Milanese. Through the frantic handgestures and rattled speech Leonora picked out a number
of ominous words. Press ads. Interviews. Local, then national.
Flyers to hotels for their hospitality packs. Photoshoot.
Storyboard. At this last Chiara crossed to the flip chart and
revealed an image which seemed to depict a blonde
Botticelli Angel blowing a trumpet at heaven's gates.
Leonora rose and looked closer. She had been mistaken.
The angel was wearing jeans and a tight fitting vest. The
trumpet was no trumpet but a blowpipe. The bell of the trumpet was an exquisite vase. The angel was blowing glass.
The image was beautiful and terrible, and now at last
Leonora did laugh. She turned back to three totally serious
faces.

`Let me be clear about this.You're proposing to run some
sort of ... advertising campaign ... on the back of, well,
me?'

`Not just you, Signorina Manin, but your exalted ancestor'
With a practised flourish, Chiara turned the page. 'May I
introduce: The Manin range.'

Oh no.

Visuals and slogans shouted at Leonora. Photos, mock-ups
for packaging.

More pages with copy lines writ large: `The Glass that
built the Republic."See the real Venice through our Glass!
'Manin Glass, made by true Venetians for 400 years."Manin
Glass, the original Venetian Glass' Over and again there
were images of the blonde Botticelli (presumably herself)
and a dark child in a frock coat and ruf.

'Unfortunately, there is no adult portrait of Corrado
Manin. He fled his family home aged ten, so there is just
this which we took from a family group.' Chiara's shrug
expressed regret for this personal tragedy - not for the
little boy's loss, but that she herself was inconvenienced by
the lack of an adult image. Leonora studied the closed,
serious face of the little boy who had grown into greatness. The designers had excised him from the painting, separated
him from his family once again to stand alone. She had
not known of this portrait, or even this part of his history,
and felt ashamed.

How is it that these grotesques straight from the Commedia
dell'Arte know more of Corradino than I do myse? Because
they bothered to (find out. I must know more about him.

Chiara's pitch continued apace. `Our campaign depends on
two major elements - Corrado Manin, the Mozart of
glassmaking, gives this foundry's output the continuity of
long history - the solid, antique image with an impeccable
Venetian pedigree. And you Signorina, are his ancestor - and
the only female glassblower on the islands. We can sell the
modernity of the latest designs on your image - the contemporary, the avant-garde, but always with the weight of
your family history at your back.'

1 feel sick.

Leonora turned to Adelino and spoke urgently in sotto voce
Veneziano. `This is obscene!'

Adelino rose and took her to the window `Scusi,' - this
to the Milanese who had gone into a huddle over a layout
pad, clearly planning their next assault on the Manin
name.

Adelino weighed in with a pitch of his own. `Leonora mia, calm down. It has always been like this. The Rialto
tradesmen of the Renaissance, and Corradino himself,
would have done anything to rise above the competition.
They had no artistic sensibilities. They were businessmen
- just as I am.' Seeing her resistance he took her hand in
a final appeal. 'Leonora, I am overstretched. I have offshore
interests; have borrowed widely to prop up the business.
The fornace is struggling.'

Leonora looked across at the spires of San Marco; the
view that had delighted her just a few short weeks ago
when she had been given this job. Now the beloved towers
seemed a bed of nails, a nest of swords where she would
be impaled as a public spectacle. The lagoon was still and
serene today, but her mind felt buffeted by tidal winds.

My mind is tossing on the ocean.

'What will the maestri think? I am a newcomer, a novice:
Leonora thought of Roberto's chilling antagonism, and the
dislike of her that he had spread like a virus through the
fornace.'I can't put myself forward in this way. It's unthinkable.'