The Glassblower of Murano (21 page)

`Forgive me, I've been ... unwell ... for a couple of days
now.

The Professore nodded and took up his story. 'Corrado's
daughter was also called Leonora. She was the product of
an illegitimate union between Corrado and a noblewoman,
Angelina del Vescovi, who died in childbirth. Leonora was
taken in to the Pieta orphanage and trained in music. She
was given the name of Marlin, but surnames were never
used at the orphanage. The girls in the Pieta were always
known by the instrument they played - `cello, violino - to
maintain the anonymity of the bastard children of some
very highly born families. She was always Leonora della
viola, and was a very accomplished player. None would
have known of her connection to Corradino, or even of her existence unless he himself told of it. Even The Ten
had to respect the secrets of the Pieta, as the foundation
had the weight of the church and its laws of sanctuary
behind it. After Corradino's death Leonora was found by
a distant cousin - a Milanese called Lorenzo Visconti-Manin
- who was attempting to trace the disparate fragments of
his family. The two fell in love and married, and she once
again came into her rightful name. The Martins became a
powerful force in Venice once again, and their descendant
Lodovico Manin became a Doge, the last ofVenice before
the Republic fell.!

Leonora's head spun, but her nausea was gone in the
hope that now consumed her. `So Corradino would not
have left, for fear of his daughter's safety.'

'No,' said the Professore. `That is not what I meant. The
Ten knew nothing of the child, for she was secreted in
the Pieta by her grandfather and no one knew who had
fathered her. Angelina never told the name of her seducer,
and took the secret to her grave. I merely meant that I
thought it unlikely that Corradino would have left Venice
while Leonora lived.Visits to a secret daughter in the Pieta
would be risky, but not impossible. And I imagine the
temptation would be very hard to resist.'

Leonora was silent, digesting this.

So the treachery story could still be true, if unlikely. And what
of this new character, the lost girl with my name that had no
family but the Pieta and only music for her friend. At least she found love in the end.

She asked, `how would we find out more? Can we ever
know for sure if Corradino left Venice?'

`You could try the large library in San Marco - the
Sansoviniana - they have guild records and also records of
births and death, going back centuries. But I have told you
all I know of Corradino's history, and this is the account
that I gave Elinor' The Professore stood to stretch his bad
leg. `My only other suggestion would be to try to find
something out from the French end. I have some contacts
at the Sorbonne who could help you.'

Leonora took his cue and stood. `May I see you again?
And will you contact me if you think of anything more?'

`Of course. And you may mention my name for a reference in the rare book collections of the Sansoviniana.'

I remember my first day here, when they would barely let me
through the front door of the Sansoviniana. Now I am to be
admitted to the inner sanctum.

The Professore moved to his desk to write down numbers
and the names of various document collections that might
be helpful. Leonora scribbled down her phone numbers
and as the papers were exchanged Padovani wondered if
Leonora was actually going to leave without asking of that
other Manin, but at last she said: `And my father? Did you
know him?'

The Professore shook his head, with sympathy in his eyes.
`As is the manner of young women in love, Elinor saw
little of her friends and kept Bruno to herself. I only heard
of his death through the local news.'

At the mention of her father's name in this context, Leonora
felt a wave of shame that she had not bothered to enquire
after him before, so consumed was she with Corradino.

`Is there any family still in Venice?

`I don't know. Elinor mentioned that Bruno's parents
lived in Verona, but they died long since.'

Leonora knew of this but had not contemplated the loss
before - of that immediate family that most take for granted;
Grandparents. They had gone - without any of the usual
meetings, knitted jumpers, chocolate bars, holiday outings.
She collected herself - she knew that she must leave the
Professore, and was anxious to begin her researches of the
documents he had suggested, but felt she had a thousand
more questions.

As she moved to the door, with murmurs of thanks and
promises to return, the Professore embraced Leonora warmly.
Holding her arms he said, `one more thing. Tomorrow is
the feast of All Souls, the Festa dei Morte, when the people
ofVenice honour their dead. If you would see your father,
he is buried on San Michele. Perhaps you will visit him.
He too should be mourned!

Leonora felt reproach, but also affection.

I know I should go and see his grave. We should meet at last.

I'll ask Alessandro to come too.

She moved into the corridor and made to walk towards
the stairs. The Professore called, `Leonora!'

She turned. The old man looked directly at her, and said
softly, `There are some things an old man can see that a
young man can't. Look after yourself.'

`I will,' she replied.

The oak door closed and she headed down the stairs.

I wonder how he knew?

The number 41 vaporetto to the Isola San Michele resembled a flower garden. On this day, the festival of All Souls,
Venetians all honoured their dead with floral tributes, and
headed for the cemetery on the island of San Michele.
Leonora was pressed close to Alessandro, but equally close
on her other side was a sizeable matron carrying an immense
bunch of chrysanthemums. Leonora stared at the huge ugly
blooms, and breathed their pungent antiseptic scent. She
had never liked the flower - not just for aesthetic sensibilities, but because she associated them with death. Looking
around the boat, she could see that, as in France also,
chrysanthemums were indeed the flower of choice for
mourners.

Leonora and Alessandro had caught the boat from the
Fondamenta Nuove. It was a short crossing - indeed the
cemetery with its red walls and cloistered gates could be
clearly seen from the city islands. Leonora was thankful for the brevity of the trip. With the crush of people and
the smell of boat fuel, her nausea had returned. She moved
closer to Alessandro and he dropped a reassuring kiss on
her head - as he would to a child, she thought. She had
told him that he needn't come with her, but he had protested that he wished to visit his grandmother's grave
anyway. She knew this was only partly true - that he was
there in support of her and her meeting with her father.
She felt a warm thankfulness replace the sickness in her
solar plexus. When he was with her she believed in him.
She almost began to feel secure, that they had something
like a relationship.

They disembarked with the crowds, and entered the iron
gates of the cemetery. Alessandro steered Leonora to a
booth where one could purchase a map of the gravesites.

`There are three cemeteries here,' said Alessandro `all
tended by Fransiscan monks as they always have been.
Although as you'll see, a little more care is taken of the
Catholic plots than those of the other two - the Protestants
and the Greek orthodox,' he smiled wryly, `so your father
and my nonna are fortunate'

Leonora registered his flippant ghoulishness and considered that it was his way of dealing with death. She was
curious about this strange island where only the dead dwelt.
She had the feeling that she would not like to live along
the Fondamenta Nuove, where fancy would lead one to
the window of an evening to watch for phosphorescent spirits rising over the sea. She gave herself a little shake
and asked, `When did this island become a cemetery?'

`In the days of Napoleon. Before that, the dead were
taken to Sant'Ariano, which is just an ossuary now.'

`A what?'

`An island of bones.'Alessandro seemed to taste the words,
as if contemplating the title for a sensational novel. `When
the time runs out for the bodies here, they get shifted
away to make way for new ones.!

'What can you mean?'

Alessandro led her up the tended pathway to the Catholic
quarter. `I mean that Venetians are only allowed to be buried
here for a certain length of time, after which they are dug
up and moved.' He caught the look on Leonora's face. `It
has to be so. Because of room - it's limited.' He shrugged,
callously.

`I didn't mean that ...'

`Oh, I see. You mean you think he might not still be
here? He will. You get forty years I think. And if your
relatives pay, you can stay longer.'

Leonora suddenly felt angry as she followed Alessandro
through the quiet courts. She felt that there was no permanence, no rest for these people. But as she watched the
mourners walking quietly between the graves, like flowing
water that would always find its way between and round
its obstacles, she relented. This end, this rest that was not
rest, was a fitting end for the shifting, itinerant seafaring
people. Venetians lived their lives crossing from island to island, from Rialto to San Marco, Giudecca to Lido,Torcello
to Murano. Why not continue after death, this relentless
flux, with the sea as your steed? What could be better for
those merchants and crusaders who had boarded the boats
at Zattere and left them at Constantinople? And for her
father too, who had jumped from shore to boat, from boat
to shore, to earn his living all his adult life. Leonora realized that tears were sliding down her cheeks.

Idiot. You didn't even know him.

But when it came to it, as Alessandro led her through the
ranks of almost military-style graves, and she was brought
face to face with her father's name etched neatly in stone,
she felt nothing but a dry emptiness. She felt no urge for
tears. Alessandro murmured that he would find his grandmother, and melted away, but Leonora hardly noticed.

BRUNO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANIN 1949-1972

He was only twenty-three when he died.

She didn't know what to do. She was visiting the bones of
a twenty-three year old man - a man she had never met, a
man who was still ten years younger than her living self.

And forever shall be ...

The words - half remembered from school and Sunday
church, rang their solemn refrain in her head. She was lost.
At length, she lay down her tribute on the headstone -
simple white daisies. Buy your favourite, don't try to guess
his, Alessandro had said, and he had been right. Then she
sat on the grass, looked at the stark letters and numerals
again, and simply said: `Hello, I'm Leonora.'

Alessandro found his grandmother in a matter of moments,
and placed his roses at her headstone. He could scarcely
remember her now, but though the complete memory eluded
him, specifics remained. He remembered her black clothes,
worn daily since the death of his grandfather. He remembered
her tagliatelle con burro e salvia, which had never, in his opinion,
been bettered by any trattoria. He remembered her wholly
unexpected love for Vicenza Calcio, a love which had begun
his own lifelong obsession with the team, and the game of
football itself. He felt no grief, just fondness, as he crouched
to flick dried twigs away from her plot and ran his thumbnail
under a frill of lichen. He straightened up to look for Leonora,
and quickly identified her bright head, bowed, her face hidden
under her mass of hair. Discomfited, he thought she might
be crying, then, as he saw her lips move, that she was praying.
He crossed himself, but Leonora's eyes were open, and her
demeanour more casual, more comfortable than one at prayer.
He realized that, for the first time, she was having a conversation with her father.

She did not know how long she had been talking. She
had begun at the beginning, and told her father all about
her life: her childhood, her art, Stephen, the childlessness,
the divorce, the move to Venice, Murano, the house in the
Campo Manin, and Alessandro. She talked of Corradino,
of her extraordinary fondness for her - for their - ancestor.
She spoke of the stain of treachery of which she had just
learned, of Roberto, Vittoria and Professore Padovani. She
even spoke of Elinor, of their difficult relationship, and
asked about the Elinor that Bruno knew - that different
Elinor of long ago, the romantic and reckless Elinor, so
different from the buttoned and bitter woman that Leonora
knew. She talked herself to a standstill, and felt better. She
looked up at last, stretched her aching legs, and beckoned
to a hovering Alessandro that they could go. As he started
towards her she turned for one private farewell. She laid
her hand on the warm stone with affection. `Goodbye. I'll
come again.

And I will.

Alessandro and she walked to the vaporetto stop and prepared to cross the Styx again - but this time the water
would take them from the province of the dead back to
the land of the living. She had found some peace here.
She still needed to find the truth about Corradino
but it had done her good to connect with her father -
her immediate family - first. And he had been so easy to talk to. She had told him everything. Everything save
one thing.

I didn't tell him I was pregnant.

The feeling of grit in my mouth, grating between my teeth.

In his dream Corradino was on the Lido di Venezia, with
his mother. The household were on a summer trip and
the servants had roasted oysters on the beach while piccolo
Corradino ran hither and thither in the surf, soaking his
breeches with the whispering salt water. He was called to
eat, and reclined on the blood-coloured velvet cushions
with his mother's arm around him, her bosom smelling of
vanilla. He tried an oyster for the first time, his eight-yearold palate first rejecting, then accepting the gelatinous
creature as it slid down his throat. He tasted the oyster
once it had left his mouth, and so began a lifelong partiality for this peasant food. The taste remained in the grittiness of the sand, left as a residue on his tongue, like sand
washed up by a high tide; the acqua alta. In his dream he
tasted the sand, the flesh of the oyster and the vanilla scent of his mother all at once, but when he woke at last, he
knew he was far from the happiness of that day.