The Glassblower of Murano (14 page)

'On the contrary,' countered Adelino. 'Your family have
been here longer than any. Corrado Manin built this industry.
And you yourself have a talent, a precocious talent. Don't
worry about the maestri, they will be grateful. If you improve
business, they will do well, and keep their jobs. Maybe even
receive bonuses. Their families will thank you too.'

It was the irresistible argument. If she could do anything
to help the maestri, she knew she would do it. If the prosperity of the fornace turned around, would not even Roberto,
in time, be forced to acknowledge her uses and forget their
unfortunate start? Moreover, Leonora knew the unsaid
truth: if she did not do this for Adelino, what good was
she? Why did he need an extra worker, a beginner at
that?

I am to be the pound of flesh.

`Do I have a choice?'

In answer Adelino turned back to the Milanese. `She
agrees. Set it all up.'

Chiara and Semi looked up from their pad with expressions of faint amazement.They had never felt that Leonora's
compliance would be in any doubt.

Adelino was alone at last. His head ached after a protracted
discussion in which the advertising team had been forced
to make several concessions to Leonora in the battle for
good taste. He glanced at the screen of his ancient computer, where the portrait of a ten-year-old Corradino sat,
still and silent under glass. He addressed the long dead
boy.

`What can you do for me, Corradino?'

Catching himself, he turned to the window The flipchart
had gone back to Milan, so he could gaze out to sea unobstructed, like a merchant of old waiting for his argosies to richly come to harbour.

Corradino clutched at the heavy velvet curtains, feeling
the sweat from his printless fingertips soak into the nap
of the fabric. For a moment he felt a fear that was so
palpable it sent a chill through his stomach and bowels,
and muddled his senses so that he could barely remember
what he must say.

`Maestro Domenico?' At last the name that he had
repeated in his head like a catechism for the last month
returned to him.

He had gone back to work after meeting Duparcmieur
and tried to live as normal. But normality had left him
now, seemingly forever. He recalled the conversation
constantly in his head, remembering every word, every
look, every nuance. For days he lived in the dread and
excitement of hearing the summons of Maestro
Domenico. In his dreams this alias had assumed an identity of its own, a ghostly, terrifying shade who
removed his mask to reveal the rotting countenance
of his uncle Ugolino. Ever present, too was the mortal
fear that The Ten would discover that he had attended
a clandestine meeting and at last seek his life. Corradino
even considered denouncing the Frenchman to the
Council - he could take an agent to the next meeting
and have Duparcmieur put to death, and prove himself
a loyal member of the Republic. Three things stayed
him from this course.

Firstly, he felt a natural resistance to taking the path of
his uncle and denouncing another man through the Lion's
mouth. He had long thought it odd that in Dante's Divina
Commedia - the book he read now as his bible - the lisping,
hapless traitor that suffered the torments of the Inferno
was called Ugolino, like his beloved dead uncle. Now he
knew how fitting it was that his uncle shared a name with
this unfortunate Florentine.

For my uncle was the worst kind of traitor; one who betrayed his
family.

Betrayal of the State was but a small sin next to this.Which
brought Corradino to the second reason.

Duparcniieur's words rang in his head: `What do you
owe the kepublic, Corradino? She has enslaved you.'

It was true. He loved his work - lived it even, but he
knew that only his skills kept him alive. If for any reason he ceased to be able to do his work, he would be lost.
And they had done worse, much worse ...'Taken your
family from you ... nearly all ...' Aye, that `nearly' was
what stopped him betraying Duparcmieur. The third
reason.

Leonora.

As the days turned to weeks of waiting - to the point
where Corradino asked himself if he had dreamt all - he
had the overriding desire to find out more of the
Frenchman's plan. Was there a way he could begin a life
overseas with Leonora? She whom he loved as he had
loved no one else since his own mother?

Over the weeks his fears receded and were replaced. He
now felt a hunger, an impatience to be contacted. Would
the summons ever come? Had the Frenchman been
denounced by another - perhaps Baccia - and even now
lay tortured, dying, dead?

Yesternight, though, the summons had come at last.
Giacomo, with the air of one who knew nothing beyond
his words, had passed on a message that Corradino was to
meet Maestro Domenico of the Old Theatre at noon of
the next day. Corradino had given a disinterested nod while
his stomach lurched. He excused himself, went outside,
and vomited into the canal.

Here, now, at the Teatro Vecchio, the maze of stairs and
corridors had brought him to this curtain. He knew not where it led, only that once he drew its folds aside, there
could be no return.

Or I could leave now.

In tones hoarse as a crow, he spoke the name, and there
was silence. With a mixture of disappointment and relief
he wondered if there were no one there. But those accents
he remembered so well spoke from beyond the arras.

`Si. Entrate.'

With a shaking hand, Corradino drew the heavy drape
aside and entered into he knew not what. Like the Dante
of his book - of his father's book - he entered on a new
path, with a new guide, midway through the journey of
his life. He knew naught of where the road would lead,
or the one who would lead him.

`So, you have come, Corradino.'

Corradino's ready reply died on his lips. He could not
see the one who spoke, only the spectacle below.

He was standing in a box-like extrusion above a dark
and cavernous space. But at the fore of the space was a
shining arc of gold, a baroque riot of giltwork crowning
a stage that was brilliant with the light of a thousand
candles. On the stage were characters - such characters!
Not the pantomime costumes of the Commedia dell'Arte,
or the gaudy garb of the Carnevale, but players dressed in
cloth of gold, jewels, and tissue of silver. One such princess
stood with the company grouped around her in the attitude of an antique painting, and she sang with such
passing beauty that Corradino all but forgot his fear and
trouble. But this was not the holy beauty of the Pieta choir,
but a secular, joyful song in a language he did not know

`Monteverdi,' said Duparcmieur's voice. `This is an aria
from L'incoronazione di Poppea. Claudio was considered to
be somewhat of a genius, but, as with most of that type,
a deeply irritating man. You have not been to the opera
before?'

Corradino shook his head, dazed.

`These and other delights await you when you enter
Paris, an even greater city of culture. Close the drapes
behind us, and we may have our conference while we
enjoy the song. It is, of course, vital that we are not seen.
This is why we meet as these players rehearse!

Corradino did as he was bid, and as his eyes adjusted to
the darkness of the box he could at last make out the
figure of his conspirator.

'Do sit down, my dear fellow. There is a chair behind
you.

As Corradino sat, he peered at Duparcmieur through
the gloom. Gone were the doctor's weeds, and in their
place the flamboyant garb of a theatrical impresario. The
hair and whiskers were unstyled today, and silvered to give
an aged artistic look.

`Well. And to our business. I think our best approach is
for me to put our proposal to you, and then you may
question me. Agreed?'

Corradino nodded faintly in the dark, but the movement
was caught by the Frenchman.

`Good. Then I will begin, for our time here is short.You
have heard, I suppose, of His most illustrious Majesty, King
Louis XIV of France.'

Another nod.

`Indeed. Who has not. In reflection of his glorious reign
and great wisdom, the finest architects are even now
building what will be the most magnificent royal palace
in the known world, in the lands of Versailles near Paris.
Greater than those of the ancient Roman or Egyptian
peoples, than those of the Nabobs and Maharjees of the
Indies, than the antique and noble Greeks. Greater even
than those strange and wonderful mansions of the Chinois
in the Orient that your own countryman, Marco Polo,
lately found. And yet, in order to do this, and set such a
place apart, His Majesty has himself had a notion which
will have men wondering for centuries.!

Corradino found his voice. `And what is his notion?'

'He wishes to construct a great chamber entirely out of
mirrors.

Corradino was silent. The song from below drifted
through his brain as he imagined such an audacious
thing.

`How interesting.' The amusement that he remembered
well returned to the Frenchman's voice.

`What interests you?' asked Corradino.

`That you did not say at once that it could not he done.

This convinces me even more that you are the man for
the task.'

`Why must the King build such a thing? The expense
will be very great, the work difficult and long.'

In the gloom Corradino could see the expansive wave
of the Frenchman's hand.

`These things matter not to His Majesty. What matters
is the show and pomp of royalty. Such a palace, with such
a hall, will make other great men esteem him greatly. Politics
hang upon magnificence, Corradino. We are esteemed by
our person, and our possessions. Such a place could become
a centre of policy for centuries to come. Great councils
will be held there, and great deeds done!

'I see. And you want me to help you.'

Now was Duparcmieur's turn to nod.

`We wish you to come to Paris. We will quarter you in
comfort and luxury in the lands around the Palace, and
you will superintend the mirror and glasswork. After a
time, when all is safe and the work progresses well, we
will send for your daughter.'

Corradino started `She cannot travel with me?'

A shake of the perfumed head. `Not at once. The danger
is great for one, much greater for two. It is much safer that
she stays here for now You must tell her nothing of this,
for her own sake, even when you take your leave.'

`But Monsieur, there is no possibility of my being able
to leave the city alive. I am watched at every turn and
under great suspicion for reasons of my family.!

Then Duparcmieur leaned close, so close that Corradino
could smell the pomade of his hair, and feel the warmth
of his breath. `Corradino, you will not leave the city
alive.'

The house at least, is mine. I am the tenant. I will make it a
home.

Discomfited by the developments at the fornace, dreading
the photoshoots and interviews she knew would come,
Leonora had two comforts: her work, as the glass began
to answer to her hand and breath, and the little flat in the
Campo Manin. When she returned home in the amber
light of the evening - for there were to be no more invitations from her colleagues to keep her out after dark - she
felt her heart lift as she got her first glimpse of the old
building, sleeping in the evening sun, bricks the colour of
a lion's pelt. Her eyes raised automatically to the two uppermost windows - her windows.

This was the first home that was truly hers. Here she was
answerable to no-one, not her mother with her academic books and fine prints, not her student housemates with
their hippy artschool chic, and not Stephen with his solid,
unoriginal antiques and magnolia walls. She would create
the home that she wanted - surround herself with the
colours and textures and things that she wanted to see every
day, to offset her own new self.

She began to spend her weekends wandering the markets
of the city - alone but not lonely, picking up fabrics and
objects that spoke to her of Venice. She rooted through
the little dark and secret shops of the Accademia on her
own private treasure hunt. She returned home triumphant
with her booty like a latter-day Marco Polo. The darkwood
bowl she had found in the Campo San Vio was placed on
the kitchen table and filled with a pyramid of fragrant
lemons from the San Barnaba fruit boats. The enormous
stone toe, hewn from some statue (where? And when?)
which was so hefty she had had to have it delivered, now
propped open the kitchen door. She poured over paint
charts and spent long hours covering the walls - her living-room-bedroom she painted the sea-turquoise she had
seen in the stairway, a colour she hoped had bled through
time from Corradino's age, which she garnished with gilt
edging and gold sconces. She found an enormous old
mahogany box bed, which had to be hoisted through the
window with the help of her enthusiastic and voluble
neighbours. She made it up with soft pillows and bedspreads
of creamy Burano lace, tatted by the old women who sat in the doorways of their coloured houses, warmed by the
sun as their fingers flew in their laps. The kitchen she
painted a glowing blood red, and collected little tiles the
colour of stained glass, to mosaic above the sink. She found
a block of ancient wood at a house clearance - huge and
dark, it had the vestiges of carving which suggested it had
been hewn from a palace door. It served perfectly for a
chopping board.

The roof terrace she swept and tiled with terracotta slabs
from Florence. She wired the balustrade for safety and
bought numerous pots to fill with plants to give day-colour
and night-scent - dotted around the terrace like portly
little men. Many were filled with herbs to pinch for cooking
- the basil she took downstairs to the kitchen windowsill,
as the herb she knew she would use the most.