The Glassblower of Murano (26 page)

The Venetian Ambassador.

La Principessa had been very excited when he showed her
the document. After reading it three times, she dragged the
volume of letters over to his desk with a speed that made
him fear for her condition, which was now very advanced.
She badgered him about making a copy, till at last he took
the letter in question to the private inner sanctum where
the specialized scanners and printers lay dormant. Squat and
expensive, these machines could copy even the most delicate
parchment with the use of infra-red laser technology. Not
for these documents the exposure to the harsh bands of
light of the office photocopier, thought Aldo Savini tenderly.
He took the pages back to the Principessa, who waited at
his desk. She grasped the pages to her belly, face-up as if
she did not want the child to read the contents from within
her. She looked agitated, but not particularly happy. Still,
ever good mannered, she gave him one of her peerless smiles.

`Thank you, Signor Savini,' she said.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, gathering courage, but
she had already turned before he had uttered the name
`Aldo.'

She had not heard him - she was walking away through
the bookstacks, her mind already elsewhere. And in the
grand chivalric tradition to which Aldo Savini was so
attached, he never saw her again.

When Jules Hardouin-Mansart, chief architect of the Palace
ofVersailles, showed Corradino the plans for what he called
the `Salon des Glaces' even Corradino had a moment of
thinking that it could not be done. There were to be
twenty-one huge mirrors, each with twenty-one panes.
Each pane was to be exquisite, flat, true and with a crystalclear reflection. There was to be no bevel at the edge, so
that the glass would appear as one piece, with no interruptions to the reflected image. Moreover, each glass was
to reflect exactly the window opposite it, so exterior light
and interior light were partnered, to create, as HardouinMansart said, the lightest room in the world. There was
also to be fantastic series of frescoes on the ceiling, depicting
the King's life and the glories of France. These were to be
painted by Royal Painter Charles Le Brun and his apprentices.

Le Brun himself was a constant presence at the site, relentlessly questioning Corradino about the direction of
light, the angle of reflection, and the implications for his
painting. Slowly, Le Brun's wondrous panels came to life
- high above, gesso doves fluttered in the stratosphere, and
bare-breasted beauties reclined on fat clouds while they
watched the golden triumphal chariots of the King.
Corradino recognized a kindred talent, but felt the weight
of the task presented to him. His glass must reflect these
glories.

Even the designer of the great gardens, Andre Le Notre,
visited the hall to inspect how his artistry would be reflected
in the mirrored wall.

Despite his reservations, however, Corradino found that
all help was there at his disposal - conferences with carpenters and masons, the assistance of the latest measuring
equipment, mathematicians from Paris. The fornace - purpose built in the kitchen gardens of the palace - was well
equipped, and Jacques Chauvire worked hard and progressed
well. As Corradino taught Jacques his secret method the
boy blossomed, and together master and apprentice began
to make larger and larger panes. Corradino gradually had
to remelt less ofJacques' work, and by the end of Corradino's
first month in Paris Jacques had made his first passable
square mirror pane.

At night Corradino went back to his well furnished
house in the nearby village of Trianon. With six chambers,
a maid and a small vegetable garden, it afforded greater
luxury than he had known since leaving the Palazzo Martin. He began to relax - to feel, for the first time in years, that
he was not being watched. Sometimes, in the dying sunlight when he stood at the end of his garden watching the
enormous palace grow, with a goblet of fine French wine
in his hand, thinking of Leonora, he was almost happy.

This new sense of ease was destined to be short-lived.

On the momentous day that the first silvered panes were
set in place in the Hall of Mirrors, Corradino stood, arms
akimbo, supervising the work as the last glass was set in
place. Quite a gaggle had formed to watch the work,
including Hardouin-Mansart and Le Notre. Privileged
company indeed, and at length they were rewarded as the
mirror was complete and the crowd stood back in awe. A
hush descended as the men surveyed their handiwork - the
mirror arched above them, high and clear, gilded struts
crossing the panes like light caged with gold. As well as
their own reflections, the assembly saw the half-completed
gardens, and the half-filled lakes stretching out into the
distance, as far as the eye could see, in an optical miracle
of design. The thing was truly a marvel, and all assembled
could see what wonders they could expect when the hall
was complete. No one moved, unable to tear their eyes
away. Talk, once hushed, died into silence. But not just
through admiration, or respect for the craftsmanship they
all witnessed. They were silent for the presence of royalty.
The King had entered the room.

Louis strode toward the mirror, and those gathered bowed
to the floor instantly. Corradino bent low, his heart thudding.

Will this capricious King approve of my work?

Soon he had greater anxiety to reckon with - his lowered
eyes raked the royal slippers, then moved to the pair of
shoes next to them - Bauta slippers with red laces, sold
only on the Rialto.

Venetian shoes.

Corradino's hair crisped on his scalp. He dared not raise
his eyes, but as the crowd around him straightened up he
contrived to shuffle to the back of the throng, as HardouinMansart and Le Notre moved forward to be presented.
The King was speaking. Blood thrummed in Corradino's
ears so loudly that he could not, at once, hear what was
said.

`So Ambassador, pas mal, hero? Perhaps even you will be
forced to admit that my little chateau, when complete, will
rival your crumbling palazzi?'

The Ambassador bowed politely, but Corradino could
see that his eyes were hooded, and their gaze cool and
guarded. He thought he knew the man slightly, a member
of the Venetian Guilini family, attache to the Arsenate years
ago when Corradino's father was trading with the Baltic. A taciturn, but highly intelligent youth he had been then.
He must have risen through the influence of his family to
this exalted state, but looked as if his intellect merited the
position. Dressed in the finest Venetian velvets and satins
with hair and beard trimmed and oiled, the Ambassador
looked not like a dandy but a self possessed, confident, and
highly dangerous man.

The King spotted Hardouin-Mansart and Le Notre at
the front of the throng. He beckoned with a fat beringed
hand and the pair bowed low as the King began desultory
introductions. `This is Hardouin-Mansart, my palace architect. And that's Le Notre who's doing the gardens. It goes
well?' He waved away their answers. `Yes, yes, but this
mirror is better than both your efforts, no? I imagine you
two are jealous? Going to get one of your masons to drop
a brick on it, Jules?' The King laughed at his own sally as
the court joined in. Then, as Corradino began to relax,
Louis uttered a question which froze his blood. `Where's
my Maitre des Glaces? Can't have you two taking all the
bouquets .. ' His eyes raked the crowd, found Corradino's.
Corradino's heart thumped so he thought he would expire.
A smile flitted over the King's features like a summer cloud.
`There's the fellow.'

I am undone - my life is ended.

But the fat hand beckoned Jacques Chauvire. Guillaume
Seve, passed over for the job, gave Jacques an officious little shove, and the boy stumbled forward awkwardly, twisting
his leather cap in his hand.

Baldasar Guilini regarded Jacques balefully from under
an arched eyebrow. He made a circuit of the boy on his
Venetian heels, looking him up and down. Then he walked
to the mirror, freeing his hand, finger by finger, from his
chamois glove. He reached out his index finger and touched
the cool, flat glass, leaving a smoky print. Corradino, despite
himself, winced as if a seducer had laid a finger on his
daughter.

Baldasar turned back to Jacques.

`Something wrong, Ambassador?' asked Louis, who
seemed to be suppressing the mirth of a private jest.

The Ambassador visibly recollected himself. `Forgive me,
Majesty, I was thinking that this man - Chauvire, is it - is
very young to create such mastery.'

Jacques shifted his weight, as Louis replied, `Perhaps it is
hard to accept that France has at last attained the quality
of glasswork that the Venetians have enjoyed these past
many years.

Baldasar looked from the mirror to Jacques and back
again. `How many panes in this mirror, Maitre?' he gave
the title a gentle, ironic stress.

Jacques, properly, looked to the King, who nodded that
he may answer. `Twenty-one, Gracieux Monsieur.!

`And how many years have you been on this earth?'

`Twenty-one, Gracieux Monsieur.'

'How fitting. There is a pleasing symmetry about that, don't you find? Indeed, it is a work of passing beauty for
one of such tender years. It has clarity, lucidity; one might
almost say a Venetian quality about it.' His eyes raked the
crowd and Corradino shifted, dropping his eyes, obscured
behind one of the burlier masons.

`I congratulate you, Majesty.' The Ambassador bowed
once again, but his eyes were thoughtful behind his diplomatic visage.

`Well, well'The King waved away the compliment modestly as if he had crafted the mirror himself. He moved
off down the hall, with Ambassador and coterie in tow.
Then, briefly, the Royal head turned. Quick as a flash,
Louis' eyes found Corradino. One eye closed for an instant.
Then the King turned back and continued on, the whole
incredible incident taking no more than an instant, and
the court not even faltering in its progress. Corradino, as
he allowed himself to breathe again, tried to comprehend
what he had just seen.

The King had winked at him.

It is a game to him. A piece of amusement. The fact that my life
is forfeit if I am discovered, that whole pantomime with Jacques,
it is all a game; a piece of Royal folly to pass the hours.

Sweating, glass-limbed, he put a hand to his thudding heart,
as if to keep that organ from leaping from his chest. Guilini
had not seen him, would not even know him if he had, as Corradino had been but eight years old when he met
the adolescent Guilini at the Arsenale on business with his
father. But was Louis capricious enough to reveal the true
identity of his Maitre des Glaces over brandy after the
Ambassadorial dinner? No, reasoned Corradino, the King's
national pride, already fully displayed, would dictate that
the credit for the Hall of Mirrors would be attributed to
French craftsmen, now and for all time in the future. Then,
how long would an Ambassador stay? Not more than a
week, two weeks? Best to lie low till he heard Guilini had
gone. Shaken, Corradino returned to the fornace, waving
away Jacques' agonized apologies that he had been given
credit for Corradino's work. I must talk to Duparcmieur,
thought Corradino. I must bring Leonora to me.

But Corradino had forgotten one thing in his reasoning.
The mirror itself had betrayed him. In the moment when
Louis had looked back, Baldasar Guilini, quick as a cat,
had seen the exchange in the mirrored panes. Corradino
had been right, Guilini had not recognized him yet. But
he knew him for an Italian, and it was but a short step
from thence to know him for a Venetian.

That night, after the Ambassadorial dinner in his honour,
and the brandy over which Louis told him nothing, Baldasar
Guilini returned to his quarters in the Palais Royal. He
refused the attentions of the courtesan he had brought
from Venice, and instead, sat down at his ornate gilded
writing desk.

Alone, with the heavy drapes closed, in the warm perfumed closeness of his elaborate chambers, he took up his
quill and began to write a letter. At length he sanded the
parchment, folded it twice, and heated a stick of red wax
at his candle. He pressed the molten wax to the paper,
where it lay like a gout of blood. He turned his signet
ring and with the ease of long practice impressed the wax
clearly with its design - the winged lion of San Marco.
He turned the parchment and wrote the direction on the
face for Louis' messenger, who waited outside his door.

It was to His Excellency the Doge of Venice.

Leonora walked all the way home from San Marco. The
photocopy of the Ambassador's letter was in her bag, and
she felt its presence burning through the canvas. It was
early evening, and the streets were deserted. She knew why
- it was the eve of Carnevale, and all the citizens ofVenice
were getting ready - putting the finishing touches to their
costumes, grabbing much needed sleep before the nights
of revelry to come. Tomorrow the tourists would be back
in full force and the city would wake from her winter
sleep. The shuttered and cold city known only to her
residents, would resume her bloom - the princess, once
kissed, would slough off her hundred years sleep and
blossom for her suitors once more.

And yet the darkest hour comes just before dawn.
Leonora's walk home was beset by dreaded shadows once
more - not just the spirit of Roberto this time (had he
left Venice? Or was he still here?) but also the malign presence of the Ambassador whose words she had just read.
Words that condemned Corradino. These twin presences
stalked her home.The night froze with the water underfoot
and in the air, her breath smoked. She tried to hurry, but
the burden of her baby sat hard upon her hips and her
pelvis ached. Eight months of growth and icy pavings did
not allow a speedy progress.The palaces and houses shunned
her with their blank frontages. All was green and grey
where once it had been gold and amber. She remembered
something that Alessandro had said; that in Venice the
moonlight was green because the light reflected from the
canal. It was so tonight, but the greenish tint was ghostly,
ghastly: it turned living flesh to the hue of the dead. The
canal itself was a trough of cold green glass. The city had
cooled and hardened.There is no sanctuary here, the houses
said. You are no longer one of our own. Even the statue
of Daniele Martin, turned by twilight to a greenish ghoul,
accused her from his plinth. His copper embodiment proof
of his own loyalty; he questioned hers. Her bright windows
were a lighthouse beacon to guide her to safe mooring.