The Glassblower of Murano (16 page)

The scene was determinedly contemporary, but a careful
look in the `Manin' mirror beside their table showed a
reflection of the interior of the Do Mori, circa 1640, with
patrons in period costume and a composite of the young
Corradino standing at one of the tables. Leonora found it
quite ghostly, but intriguing in the manner of The Marriage
of Arnolfini: the image in the mirror was the point of the
piece. Her role was to bring modernity to the Antique
end of Adelino's business. In modern day dress she was
placed in classic Venetian paintings which featured glasswork
and mirrors. In the main image she was computer manipulated to match the colour and style of paint and
brushwork. She was dressed in seventeenth century costume
of golds and greens, her hair flowing in the golden ripples
of the most desired courtesans, her ivory skin given the
craquelure of ancient tempera. Once again, in the image
in a mirror - antique Manin this time - she was reflected
in her work clothes, holding the tools of her trade instead
of a fan or flower. But however tasteful the ads, Leonora
felt increasingly uncomfortable as the huge machine of the
campaign swung into motion. She knew that Adelino had
poured all the money he,had into the enterprise, borrowing
against collateral he no longer owned, plunging deeper
into debt on this one desperate chance. She felt too, the
growing contempt of her colleagues - her face burned as
she posed in front of the furnace - not from the heat but
from the glances of her colleagues who, watching, worked
around her. At the centre of the antagonism Roberto was
ever present, his resentment and growing hatred palpable
on his face. It was clear that, at the same time that he
thought Leonora unworthy of such attention, he thought
himself very much worthy of it. She knew that he had
approached the Milanese with his own family history; by
chance she had heard Semi and Chiara laughing about
him. Roberto did not enjoy being laughed at.

Leonora felt a chill as a breeze reached the balcony. Autumn
was coming, and the tourists would soon be gone. She
looked down into the campo and noticed that already the steady stream of tourist traffic had abated as, swallow-like,
they prepared to move south to warmer climes. Firenze,
Napoli, Amalfi, Roma.

Not me. This is my home.

She looked fondly down at the square, her square, which
shared her name and Corradino's too. It occurred to her
for the first time that this place she had chosen was the
architectural embodiment of past and present, of herself
and Corradino, ofAdelino's cross-centuries campaign.Along
one side, Luigi Nervi's vast modern bank, the Cassa di
Risparmio di Venezia. On the other, the beauteous historical houses where she now lived. And in the middle
(she had been delighted to learn) a statue of another Manin:
Daniele, the revolutionary whose past she had glimpsed in
the library that day. An unknown kinsman who came
between herself and Corradino on the timeline of centuries. An upstanding lawyer who had resisted the occupation
of the Austrians with as much conviction as Doge Lodovico
Manin had sold the city to them. Rewarded for his loyalty
he stood upon his plinth, the winged lion of Saint Mark
crouching at his feet, one hand tucked Napoleon-style into
his waistcoat with unconscious irony. But his sacrifice and
struggle had been corroded to comedy by the passing years,
as the dignified copper of his likeness had oxidized to
bright jester's green.

As she watched, her attention was caught by a sharply dressed woman crossing the square with purpose, her stiletto heels clicking on the stone.

No tourist she: clearly a local.

She wore a navy suit which screamed designer tailoring,
with a nipped-in waist and a skirt with a length just the
right side of trashiness. Her hair, razor cut to skim her
shoulders, flashed blue-black in the sunlight. She wore the
inevitable sunglasses, which only gave greater emphasis to
her glossy red lips. Her sexy confidence allowed her to
acknowledge but at the same time ignore the vocal admiration of a handful of masons working on the bridge. She
was clearly accustomed to such tributes.

A woman like that would tell Semi and Chiara to go to hell.

She watched the woman with admiration until she disappeared from sight, and seconds later heard the now familiar
rasp of her own doorbell. Leonora ran down her spiral
steps, heart thumping. She would not admit that each time
the doorbell rang she hoped for Alessandro.

But it was not Alessandro. It was the woman from the
square. She held out her hand.

`Signorina Manin? I'm Vittoria Minotto.' Such was the
force of her personality that Leonora reached out to shake
her hand, and moved aside to give passage to the apartment. She clearly looked as confused as she felt, for in explanation the woman said, `From Il Gazzettino.' She
flashed a press card in the manner of a member of the
FBI.

Leonora attempted to pull herself together and offered
a chair, but the journalist was off, stalking around the house,
peering at the furnishings, picking up objects and putting
them down again. With a practised gesture she pushed her
shades into her raven hair and peered at the view as if
making mental notes. Her one word `hello' at once praised
the decor and condemned it. `This will do for you,' it
seemed to say, `but it is not in my taste' At close proximity
her confidence and sexuality were almost tangible. Her
style and poise, her sharpness of dress, made Leonora feel
blowsy and badly put together. Her dress and the twisted
locks of her loose hair, with which she had been pleased
as she looked in the mirror that morning, now seemed
messy and amateur.

I'm behaving like a sixth former with a crush. If she's having
this effect on me, what must she do to a man?

With an effort that she was afraid was visible to her guest,
Leonora pulled herself together, trying to regain her composure, and with it, the ascendancy. `Can I offer you a
drink? Coffee?'

Vittoria turned and favoured Leonora with a smile of
immense charm and startling whiteness. `Please'

The journalist sat, this time unbidden, at the kitchen table and snapped open her briefcase with the sound of a
cocked gun. She took out an innocuous notebook and
pen, and something else - small, silver and threatening, it
squatted on the table. A tape recorder. Vittoria took out a
third item, a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it.
Both the brand and the way she lit the thing reminded
Leonora sharply of Alessandro, with a brief stab of pain.
Vittoria made a waving gesture, and the smoke wreathed
around her blood-red nails. `You don't mind?'

Leonora was unsure whether the journalist was referring
to the tape recorder or the cigarette. She minded both,
but shook her head.

Click. Vittoria's thumbnail depressed the button and the
tiny spools began to cycle. Leonora brought the coffee
from the stove and sat opposite the journalist, feeling the
air of contest. The recorder whirred like the timer of a
chess match.

`Can you tell me a bit about yourself?'

`What do you want to know?'

`Perhaps a little background for our readers?'

`Starting in England? Or here? I'm sorry ... I'm not
used to this. Perhaps ... could you ... I think I'd find it
easier if you asked me direct questions.'

A sip of coffee. `Fine. What made you come to Venice?'

`Well, I was born here, even though I was brought up
in England. My father was Venetian. And I trained as an
artist, was always interested in glassblowing. My mother
told me the story of Corradino, when she gave me this heart which he made.'

Vittoria's eyes narrowed and she reached out to grasp
the trinket. Her fingers were cold, and smelled of nicotine.
`Bello,' she said, with exactly the same inflection as
before.

She released the heart as Leonora went on, `and I was
intrigued. I wanted to come and see if I could carry on
the family trade.'

Family trade. That was good. Chiara and Semi will be pleased
with me. Now please let's get away from England, I don't want
to talk about Stephen.

Just like that? Wasn't it hard to leave family and friends?
Boyfriend? Husband?'

Damn.

'I ... was married. He ... we divorced.'

A drag of cigarette. A nod of the head. 'Ali I see!

Leonora felt that somehow Vittoria had divined her whole
sorry history.

This woman has never been left by anyone. She has always been
the leaver, and pities women who have been abandoned. Women
like me. Even Alessandro didn't come back for more.

`And once here, you went to Signor della Vigna for work?'

`Adelino. Yes. I was very lucky.'

A raise of the eyebrow. `Indeed. When you got the job,
how much d'you think was down to your talent, and how
much was down to your famous ancestor, Corrado
Manin?'

Leonora would not rise. `If I'm honest, I don't think I
would have gotten the chance that I got if it weren't for
Corradino. But then again, Adelino would never have
employed me if I couldn't actually blow glass. He'd be a
fool to, and he's no fool.'

She was reminded of all those interviews with budding
young actors from theatrical dynasties, who always protested
that being a Redgrave, or a Fox, was actually a hindrance
to their careers. She and Stephen always used to scoff at
the TV. She was no more convinced by her own answers
than she was by theirs.

Vittoria nodded, in retreat, but the next attack was close.
`And your colleagues? The maestri that have been blowing
glass for years? What do they think of you?'

Leonora shifted, thinking of Roberto. `They were very
welcoming, on my very first day.'

That at least, was true. It wasn't till we all went to the bar that
it went sour.

`I think they had ... reservations ... when the whole
Manin line and the ad campaign was first mooted. But,
after all, if it does well, things will improve for them ... for all of us.'

`But what do they think of you personally?' persisted
Vittoria. `Are they your friends?'

`You'd have to ask them'

Vittoria's lips curled into a sleepy smile. `Perhaps I
will.'

A mistake.

The journalist began to tap her biro against her perfect
teeth. It was a technique she employed to good effect in
her interviews with male officials. She did it to draw attention to her mouth - white even teeth parted slightly over
her pink tongue between a slick of red lipstick. Her subjects usually forgot what they were about to say, and were
led to commit some indiscretion. Leonora wondered what
was coming.

`And how about the personal angle? Have you found
any romance here in the city of love?'

Leonora could hear the heavy cynicism which underlay
Vittoria's question. She was not about to admit her feelings
to this woman - this woman who clearly did not believe
in love - at least, not the romantic kind.

`No, there's no-one'

Vittoria lowered her eyes and made as if to pack up her
paraphernalia. It was another favourite trick of hers - they
always started to relax. She shot Leonora a look of pity. `It
sounds very lonely. No friends, no boyfriend, just a long dead ancestor.'

Leonora was stung. Vittoria had already made her feel
inadequate - she could not handle pity too. She rose to
the bait. `Actually there is someone. But it's all very new,
so I'd rather not say anything more till I see how things
pan out.'

This time both dark brows shot up. `Could you give us
anything? A tiny hint?'

Leonora smiled to herself in a private joke. `He looks
like he has stepped from a painting'

Vittoria shrugged and snapped off the recorder with
finality. `Who doesn't?'

But as Vittoria passed the fridge on the way out she
caught sight of him, staring out of the Titian postcard. The
Cardinal's Nephew. Alessandro Bardolino. She'd seen the
painting before, of course, in his house. His mother had
bought a Titian print for him as part of a family joke. It
had hung in his kitchen, and Vittoria had passed it a hundred times a day, before, of course, she had been promoted
to Rome. And then, last month, been promoted back to
Venice. She had seen the picture every day for the three
years they had lived together.

Vittoria turned to Leonora and took her leave with such
warmth and good manners that Leonora began to think
she had imagined the needling of the interview. She was
amazed that Vittoria seemed so upbeat - she had been
careful to give little away, and the interview had been ... well, quite boring?

But Vittoria Minotto crossed the Campo Manin with a
spring in her step. The interview had been an undoubted
success. She had several promising leads. Not least that the
little vetraia was dating Alessandro. How amusing to take
him off her.

How interesting life was.

It was late, and Leonora was alone at the fornace. She had
stoked and stacked all of the furnaces and left them sleeping
for nighttime, except the one solitary firehole at which
she worked.

She had seen little of Alessandro, but he had, at least,
telephoned her only last night. He was in Vicenza, on a
course to complete his promotion to Detective, provided
that he passed the stringent exam paper that he would
sit at the end of it. For the duration of the course Leonora
had vowed to stay on at the fornace late into the evening
to work on her glassblowing skills, so that she would not
yearn for the chimes of doorbell or telephone. In this
new bubble of love in which she lived, she was afraid
that she would lose her motivation, and that the glass,
like a neglected friend, would turn upon her. She knew
also that she needed to keep this strand of her life going
as there was no knowing when the vessel that held her happiness would crack or burst under the intensity of
her new passion.