The Glassblower of Murano (22 page)

He felt the coarse sackcloth pressing on his face, planting
a rough kiss on his lips like the greeting of his uncle
Ugolino. Always bearded, it was ever a scratchy embrace
- a traitor's kiss. Corradino struggled to breathe and turned
his head slightly - it was better, but the stifling dark was
hot and crushing and he was afraid. As his head turned he
heard a metallic chink and felt two cold objects fall to the
back of his head - the two ducat coins that Giacomo had
pressed on his eyes after death, to pay the ferryman. He
felt them move in his hair, cold metal for the dead sliding
among the warm hair of the living. Perspiration soaked
him in an instant as panic swelled in his throat and he
fought the desperate urge to struggle and scream. They
had not bound him, as they had promised not to, but they
had no need - he could not feel his legs. A muffled scream
escaped him once, then with a supreme effort he calmed
himself. To keep the black panic at bay he began, for the
next long moments, to remember with exactitude, with
perfect detail, what the Frenchman had said.

`Corradino, have you heard of Romeo e Giulietta?'

Corradino was sitting in the confessional of his church,
Santi Maria e Donato on the island of Murano. All the
maestri worshipped here on Sundays. Religious observance
was not required by the State, as the civic attitude was
summed up in the phrase; 'Veneziani prima, poi cristiani' - `Venetians first, then Christians'. But the glassblowers
were more devout than most, as they appreciated the gifts
which elevated them above the common man. Corradino,
in the arrogance of a great artisan, often had the blasphemous notion that he and God shared the same satisfaction in the creation of beauty. In his humbler moods
he felt himself a tool or instrument of the Creator.
Sometimes he listened to the words of the mass, but on
other days he spent long moments marvelling at the
Byzantine splendour of the mosaic that adorned the nave
floor. He felt a respect and a brotherhood for the longdead-craftsmen who knew how to combine such abstract
patterns with realistic beasts. In the universe of the mosaic
nature was strange and sometimes inverted; here an eagle
carried off a deer in his talons, there two roosters carried
a helpless fox slung from a pole.

The mosaic is allegorickal - it describes my own existence to me.
It is made of thousands of nuggets of glass just as my life is, and
it depicts nature as it is and nature as it is not. Some of my
daily life has remained the same, some is greatly changed.

Today he had come to confession as usual, but he did not
confess to his usual priest. He realized as soon as the voice
spoke in the warm dark that it was Duparcmieur.

They had never met in the same place twice, and no
longer in Venice. The Frenchman had been a merchant on
Burano where Corradino had gone to buy gold leaf, Duparcmieur's costume flamboyant enough to make him
disappear in the spectrum of the multicoloured fishing
houses. He had been a boatman who murmured to
Corradino in low tones as he rowed the ferry between
Venice and Giudecca. And now, he was a Catholic priest.

He changes every time so completely, like the fabled lizards of
the Indies who can dissemble as a leaf or a rock. I feel that I
live in a dream, or a commedia played out by actors in San
Marco.

But Duparcmieur was no comic muse - he dealt in Death.
Today they were here to plan Corradino's demise, although
the Frenchman's opening gambit seemed to belie the seriousness of their business.

`Romeo e Giulietta?' Corradino was bemused. But he had
learned in their conversations that it were best to answer
the Frenchman literally - apart from anything else, it saved
time.

Although Corradino's formal education was halted at
ten when Monsieur Loisy was wrested from him, Giacomo
had done right by him and continued the boy's tutelage
as best he could. So Corradino was able to reply with
some confidence. `It's an old tale, supposedly true, from
Verona during the Italian wars, about two tragic lovers
from opposing families. It was written up into a story, and
embellished, by a monk; Matteo Bandello.'

`Very good.' Duparcmieur's voice passed clearly through the grille, dry as sand, and low enough not to be overheard
through the thick frontal drapes of the confessional.

`You may be interested to know that it was lately made
into a play in England by one Master William Shakespeare.
It was written in the time of La Reine Elizabeth, but I
believe its popularity continues at court even now. It is
the final act of the tragedy that concerns us; or, more
specifically, you.'

Corradino waited. He had learned, too, that interruptions
were fruitless.

`In the play, Giulietta takes a Mantuan poison in order
to avoid an unwelcome marriage. The draught makes the
body mimic death in every particular - the countenance
grows paler, the pulses slow to an imperceptible rate, the
fires of the humours are damped - but not extinguished.
Pain is never felt - even attempts to bleed the victim
yield no flow of blood, and give no pain. In the drama,
Giulietta wakes, some days later, unharmed as if from a
deep sleep. Of course by then, her beau has taken his
own life and all is for nought. But this is not the burden
of our tale.' Duparcmieur dismissed the fates of the longdead lovers in a manner Corradino found chilling. `The
point is, my dear Corradino, that one thing your little
city states make rather well - for it certainly isn't the
food or wine,' he sniffed fastidiously, `is poison.' He took
a breath. `I suppose that in all those years of internecine
strife, your Guelfs and Ghibbelines, your Borgias and
Medicis, the art became somewhat,' he searched for a phrase, `more developed than in my own more civilized
nation:

This Corradino would not have. `Perhaps you are forgetting the wonderful artistic heritage of our states, sponsored
by those very warring families? Is art not civilization? Does
France boast a Leonardo, or a Michelangelo? And perhaps
you also forget that you have come to me to ask for my
expertise to help your King?'

He heard the impossible man chuckling through the
grille. `You have fire in your belly, Corradino. That's good.
But you must learn to love France, you know, it will be
your country too soon enough, with the will of God. Now,
to business.' The Frenchman's voice changed abruptly.
`When we leave this confessional, kneel and kiss my hand.
In it I hold the draught I have procured for you. Not, it
is true, from Mantua, but from somewhere in your own
fair Republic. Take it tonight, and but three hours later
you will fall into a deep state of sleep, and never wake in
the morning. Instead you will sleep the day through. That
night, you will wake one day exactly, almost to the moment,
from the time you fell asleep.'

`And where will I be then?'

`Well, here you must inform me, Corradino. Who is it
that will find your body?'

Corradino shivered at the term - Duparcmieur spoke as
if he were already dead. He thought for a moment but
needed no longer - he knew that if he did not appear at
the fornace for the first time in ten years save for the time he had the water sickness, Giacomo would come to his
house as he had that day too. The old man had brought
him an eel from the market, and an orange, bright as a
tiny sun, which was reputed to clear the sickness, and
did.

`Giacomo - my ... friend will find me.'

`Very well. And does he love you well enough to provide
the proper rites for you? Or will you be put in the pauper's
pit on Sant'Ariano? It matters not, we can plan for each
eventuality.'

Corradino found that the only way to contemplate the
plan was to adopt the impersonal tone of Duparcmieur. If
he thought closely about the actuality he would drive
himself distracted.

`He will pay for a burial.'

Corradino felt, rather than saw, Duparcmieur nod on the
other side of the grille. `Then he will send for the constables. But they will not be those of The Ten, they will
be working for me. You will be taken to Sant'Ariano, and
when you wake you will be buried under soil.'

Corradino choked, as if in anticipation of this fate.
`What?'

`My dear man,' said the Frenchman smoothly, `consider
that you may well be followed even after death by those
that watch you now.' Duparcmieur, after some reflection,
thought that he would not trouble Corradino with the
possibility that The Ten may send their own medico to check
that Corradino was truly dead, and that the doctor might, as had been known, plunge a surgical blade deep into the
corpse's chest just to be sure. He merely continued; 'everything must appear true. My men will not bind you, and
they will not bury you deep. You will easily be able to
escape once your strength returns.!

'And when will that be?'

`Ah yes. Now listen well, Corradino.Your limbs will take
some little time to regain their feeling.Your head and neck
will wake first, as they reign supreme in the corporeal
order. Then your heart and chestspoon and arms. Then as
your humours heat in your stomach again your legs will
gradually regain their feeling, with your feet waking last
of all. Be not afraid as this process happens, for giving way
to your fears will rob the vapours around you of their
nourishing gases. Instead you must think of this conversation, remain calm, and wait to make your escape. Do you
have a good knife?'

I will take no chances - I will make one myself. I will trust no
other man's blade with an office such as this.

`Yes:

`Then secrete it in your hose before you take the draught.
You'll need it to cut the sacking and dig.' Again, the
Frenchman thought that the possibility that The Ten's doctor
would find and confiscate the knife was best kept from
Corradino. The thought brought him to a more important
concealment; `and, Corradino, that book that you carry, which details your methods,' he met the glassblower's surprised gaze candidly, `of course we know of it. You must
hide that on your person too, and we must hope it is not
discovered ... ahem ... post mortem.We are buying yourself
and your secrets, Corradino, and if France is to steal a
march on Venice in the matter of glassware, we cannot
afford for your notebook to remain in the city. Unless, of
course,' here the veiled eyes lifted, `you wish to entrust the
book to me now? No? I thought not'

Corradino swallowed. His voice nearly failed as he asked,
`and if I get out, what next?'

`When, my dear fellow, when,' said Duparcmieur airily.
`Then you do exactly as I'm about to tell you.'

Corradino sat in his house on Murano as the sky darkened
outside. He looked around the simple but homely room
with affection, but soon his eyes were inexorably pulled
back to the vial in his hands. He knew not how long he
had been staring at the little bottle - roughly made green
glass with a sedimentary liquid gleaming dully inside. It
looked like canal water - had the Frenchman been duped?
Or worse, had Corradino been given a deadly poison instead
- had Duparcmieur realized that he had made a mistake
in recruiting him but that Corradino now knew too much
to live? Corradino chased such thoughts away by perusing
the glasswork with a professional eye - unevenly made,
but the ground glass stopper fit snugly, and there was quite
a pleasing luminance to the bottle.

'Tis passing strange that my destiny is now held inside a vial
of glass.

He thought suddenly of Giacomo, and felt sorry for what
was to come. He felt like he was losing his father all over
again, and experienced the crushing remorse that Giacomo
was about to feel the pain of losing a son. He would visit
him tonight, one last time.

Giacomo.

Could Corradino let him suffer, when he would still be
alive, perhaps prospering in France with Leonora?
Duparcmieur had warned him sternly to tell no one of
the plan, or all would be discovered. But Giacomo? Surely
it would be safe to tell him ... no ... to hint to him?
Before he could change his mind, Corradino unstoppered
the vial and drank back the draught. Fear almost made
him vomit, but he swallowed back the bitter bile, for if he
spat the poison all would be lost. His mouth tasted faintly
of almonds, and he began to feel a strange sense of euphoria.
Giddy, he reached for his quill and inkpot and sand, and
scratched some words on a page of his book which he
tore from its parent. As he sanded the words he fervently
hoped they were true.Then he left the house for Giacomo's,
tossing the bottle discreetly into the canal as he had been
told, the poison already coursing through his veins.

If he reached down, his numb fingers crawling down his
leg, a pale subterranean spider, he could feel the outline
of the black dente inside his breeches. Wrapped beside it
was the vellum book. His relief that his secrets had been
buried with him was almost as great as finding that the
knife had not been found. After three tries he pulled the
blade from his stocking, ripping through the fabric. Slowly,
so slowly, he fought the weight of the soil as he ponderously drew the knife up to his chest.