The Glassblower of Murano (27 page)

Li0ited? Someone is there? Alessandro?

Her heart beat hard and painfully as she fitted her key in
the lock - but it was not he but his cousin. Marta was
seated at the table, Il Gazzettino spread in front of her. She
looked up and smiled as Leonora entered, pink-cheeked
with cold and expectation.

`Fa freddo, vero?'

Leonora nodded, shedding gloves and scarves.
`Freezing:

Rent day. I had forgotten. Thank God I got the rest of my
month's wages from Adelino. Christ knows what will happen
next month though. I couldn't bear to lose this place too.

As she crossed the kitchen to get the money from inside
her Moroccan tagine dish (a hiding place which would be
immediately obvious to even the most amateur burglar)
she heard Marta tactfully fold the offending paper away.
She paid over her month in advance and offered Marta a
glass of wine. Her landlady seemed to hesitate.

`I'm not sure ... I ... actually, yes, please.'

Leonora opened a bottle of Valpolicella and ran the tap
for herself. As the water rushed over her hand, running to
bone-chilling coldness, she considered her friend from the
corner of her eye. The cousin of the man she loved. They
really shared nothing in the physiognomy of the face -
there were no resemblances to catch at her heart. And yet
today she divined something of him in Marta -The familiar
hesitation, distance, discomfort. She filled her glass with
water and brought the two drinks to the table.

What is she hiding?

Leonora sat and the silence persisted. Then, as if making up her mind, Marta spoke at last. `Is Alessandro coming
here tonight?'

Leonora looked up from her glass, surprise registering.
Throughout her pregnancy, she had not seen as much of
him as she would have liked, but they had had enough
shared time to foster the notion that they were a couple.
When they were together he was the model boyfriend and
expectant father - talking to the growing bump, imagining
the future child and helping her make the inevitable and
exciting changes to the flat. But the notion of cohabitation
had become a bone of contention - for some reason he
studiously avoided the issue. The flat evolved slowly to
accommodate the baby, but in all the plans he never mentioned making a space for himself. Major festivals were
spent together, and Alessandro had suggested that he come
tonight and that they go to the Carnevale together. So
Leonora answered his cousin, `He's coming here after
work.'

Marta nodded. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and
twitched the paper towards her again. `I didn't realize that
he still saw Vittoria. I just saw them in the Do Mori on
my way here.'

Leonora registered her tone before she realized what
Marta was saying. She had heard that studied nonchalance
once before in her life. She realized when and where and
was suddenly as cold as she had been outside.

Jane. In Hampstead. The friend who told me about Stephen.

In her cold horror she grasped at the name Marta had
spoken. `Vittoria?'

Marta sighed. `Vittoria Minotto. She and Sandro used to
live together, then she got promoted away from Venice.
But now she's back. But you know that of course.You ...
met her.'

Yes; she took away my livelihood. And now Sandro too?

Marta looked bewildered. `You mean he didn't tell you?'

'No.Yes. I mean - he told me about a journalist he had
been seeing, but I never thought ... I never put the two
together'

Stupid, stupid.

Marta frowned. `But surely, after the article?'

Leonora shook her head. `He was away when it all
happened. Doing his detective's course. I'm not sure
how much he knows about it.' Her head was spinning.
That woman, that sexy, vicious female, had been his?
And with her he had consented to live, when she, the
mother of his child, was to cope alone? Involuntarily
she put a hand on her bump in what had become an
accustomed gesture.

Marta took it for distress. `Are you going to be alright?'

Leonora forced a smile. She suddenly wanted Marta to
go. She needed to think. She knew what it must have cost Marta to warn her - the Venetians were, like most Italians,
extremely loyal to their families. Leonora chatted with
forced cheerfulness for what seemed an eternity but must
only have been moments. At last Marta got up for her
coat. She turned as she reached the door.

`It's nothing,' she said haltingly. `It's very civilized to be
on good terms with your ex. Sandro never did like bad
blood or ill will. He likes things to be easy.'

Easy.

So now, at last, she knew the source of the distance. He
had lived with Vittoria and been hurt. She had left him.
And now she was back, what?

Where do I fit in?

She stayed for long moments at the table, nursing her glass
of water, looking at the door through which Marta had
left, through which Alessandro was shortly to come. She
considered, as the shock drained away and anger replaced
it, how she would confront him.

No. That's not the way. Not again.

With Stephen she had faced him out with what she knew,
and he had left. This time she would learn the lessons of
history. She had to assume Alessandro's innocence as the alternative was too horrible to contemplate - to be alone in
a city which now felt alien to her, with a child and no job.

No. I will wait, and hope, and give him the benefit of the doubt.

She knew she was a coward. When he came in from the
winter night she embraced him warmly. They ate dinner
and talked animatedly of the child and the Carnevale to
come. He seemed excited about something, hyper. Her
heart chilled as she thought that Vittoria was the reason.
In denial she took him to her bed and pleased him as
much as she could. Only afterwards did she ask him one
question, hating herself.

`Marta was here tonight. You just missed her. I thought
you were going to be here by seven. What happened?'

His voice was thick with sleep. `I had to work late. That
art theft at the Ca' D'Oro. It's dragging on for ever.'

You've been caught in a lie. Proof.

She turned uncomfortably, her bump ungainly, and shoved
at the pillows. She did not want him to see the tears that
ran into the linen. The child kicked her, reacting to her
movement, and she cupped its form, crying for them both.
She felt a touch to her back.

Alessandro murmured `I love you.'

He has never once said that before. And now it's too late.

Carnevale. The Doge's Palace, that great confection, is en
fete.The delicate, blanched facade hides the dark and ermetic
chambers within.The edifice itself wears a mask. Costumed
characters, garish and bright, tangle round the pillars of
the white loggia like a gaudy ribbon. Above their heads,
like a grey tooth in a peerless smile, sit the two discoloured
pillars that stand out from their fellows. Legend has it that
these two columns are permanently stained with the blood
of the criminals that were hung and quartered there. The
revellers do not think of this. They laugh and squawk like
parrots at a bagpiper. Venice La Serenissima is, today, far
from serene. Here a moon capers with a princess, there a
Pierrot converses with an elephant. Today, a cat can look at
a King.

By the bridge of the Riva degli Schiavone, a man and a
woman hail a gondola. The man is dressed as Sandro
Botticelli, with a close cap on his curling hair, and Renaissance robes. The woman seems as if she has stepped
from his work, so closely does she resemble La Primavera.
Her gilded hair is twisted about her cherub's face, and gold
filaments snatch at the sun. Her hooded green eyes are the
colour of a wine bottle, the pupils distended with promise.
Her sprigged white dress catches in the wind and her
escort hands her into the rocking boat with care - for she
is heavily pregnant.

Leonora settled back in the cushions. She had decided that
La Primavera was the obvious choice for her Carnevale
costume; as Spring herself was pregnant with the coming
Summer, Leonora could find comfort in the flowing robes.
The dress was loose and airy, the cushions soft under her
back. Her glass heart sat in the notch of her throat; its cool
round weight a constant reassurance that she needed more
than she knew. Her child squirmed beneath the ceinture
of her dress, and its father's hand clasped hers. She looked
replete; the oft-used term `blooming' could have been
coined for her. Outwardly, she was as serene as the glassy
lagoon under the winter sun. But beneath her surface there
was darkness and turmoil in the depths. Two evils, from
the past and present, were the tides that tugged at her
innards. She doubted the fidelity of the man whose hand
she held. And between her filling breasts lay the scratchy
secret of the Ambassador's letter. She recalled her dream
of the sunlit day when the three of them rode the gondola.
Well, here they were - the child unborn but inside her belly. For the baby's sake she wanted resolution - of her
quest and her relationship too. The past, as was fitting,
should be dealt with first. She began to talk. She told
Alessandro everything. Of Corradino. Of Roberto. Of the
revelations in Il Gazzettino. She watched him carefully
when she mentioned Vittoria, but he showed no surprise,
no shifty glances or shamefaced blushes. He merely
frowned.

Vittoria can wait. For now I want his opinion as a professional.

She went on to speak of Padovani, of her researches in
the Sansoviniana. Leonora freed the much-read letter, and
handed it to Alessandro. The shadow of the Bridge of Sighs
dipped them in darkness and with a quizzical arch of the
brow, he began to read, waiting only for the shadow of
the bridge to pass.

Giacomo walked over the Bridge of Sighs with the shuffling steps of terror.Through the fine lattice of the windows
he looked what may be his last on the Riva degli Schiavoni,
where Carnevale was in full swing. The passage was small
and airless after the massive rooms in which he had been
questioned with their magnificence of frescoed gilt. He
knew that this was no mere accident but design. The condemned man leaving light and space and warmth to enter
the crushing damp darkness of that most dreaded place
- the Piombi prison. Named for the leads that slated the
roofs, he knew as well as every citizen of Venice that no
one left the fabled prison alive.

The perspiration of fear sat between the old man's shoulder
blades. His terror had begun last night when they had taken
him, and washed over him in waves all day as he had been
questioned, relentlessly, by the same dark, masked figure. He
looked through the last window with something akin to love for his lost city. But he did not sigh. Instead, a thin
stream of urine trickled down his leg to the stone floor.
The guard behind him cursed, and dropped a rag which he
scuffed along with his boot, erasing the trail. The old ones
always lost control at this point - they knew their days were
numbered. Even a young man could quickly get lung fever
from the damp of the Piombi, or be driven mad by the
dark. For the old, it was assured. He gave Giacomo a vicious
shove through the yawning mouth of the prison portal, and
as he entered the dark a trick of memory recalled to Giacomo,
word for word, the letter that they had read to him, the
letter that had brought him here.

Most esteemed and excellent Doge, Duke of the Republic of
Venice, Seneschal of the Three Islands and Emperor of
Constantinople,

Lately summering, at your Excellency's pleasure, at the court
of His Majesty Louis XIV of France, I have today made an
unsettling discovery which may pertain to the security of one of
our trading monopolies. This discovery touches on the mirror work
which His Majesty has commissioned for the decoration of his
new palace here at Versailles, where I am newly quartered.

I will tax your Excellency's patience no longer but say, in brief,
that it is my belief that a citizen of our own fair Republic is
assisting the French with their labours. Excellency, I must write
that I believe the traitor to be one of our own Murano glassmakers
(so fine is the work) who is even now unburdening the secrets of
our Guilds to the foreign craftsmen.

I have had sight of the man whom I believe to be a Venetian.
He is of his middle years, dark, well-favoured, and of youthful
appearance. I will endeavour to discover his name, but casual
enquiry reveals he may be under some kind of Royal protection,
as well a craftsman of his status may be.

Excellency, if your humble servant may be so bold, I urge you
to make such necessary enquiries of the Murano community, of
any absence among their number - even a death.

For my own part I will take further steps to bring the identity
of this man into the light.

Make haste, Excellency, I beg of you, else our monopoly is lost.

Your servant,

Baldasar Guilini, Venetian Ambassador to the Court of France.

The letter fluttered in Alessandro's fingers.The breeze stirred
their costumes as they stood, on the Riva bridge, facing
the Bridge of Sighs, their gondola ride over. The sun was
hot at their backs, and Leonora turned to warns the baby.
She was silent - she did not want to say it. Alessandro
spoke first. `It's him.'

It was still a shock to hear it like that.

`It has to be - the age, description, everything. And the
date - it's written just a few months after Corradino's
"death"!

Leonora nodded. `I know'

She turned back to lean on the parapet with him.

`I have to go to France.!

'Yes'

`I have to find out for sure. Professore Padovani has some
contacts at the Sorbonne. They'll have more records
there: