The Glassblower of Murano (29 page)

Wordless, nameless hours later. His hours were filled with
Corradino, laughing at him, taking his expertise and charity,
and yes, love, for years and now making the best glass of
his life for the French.The palaces in Giacomo's head were
made of walls of crystal. The chairs, tables and food were
glass. Corradino sat at the table which groaned with glass
food. He ate his fill of the glass delicacies till the blood
ran from his mouth, laughing all the time with a glass
King. He must be stopped.

Giacomo felt death approach him. And Death came.
Again with a guard and a candle.

The door was opened and the phantom entered. `Well?
Are you ready?'

Giacomo's voice was weak, but just audible.

`If I tell you, will you give me materials to write to my
son Roberto?

It was like bargaining with the Devil and it took the
last of Giacomo's courage. The terrible shade inclined its
cowled head. `I will send you a scribe if you tell me what
I need. And I will send you all comforts for your last hours.
Now, hurry. Your life is ebbing away.'

`My son ... he is in Vicenza. He bears the del Piero
name. I wish him ... I want him to know, and his sons to
know, that Corradino finished me, and that he, not I, was
the traitor.'

`It shall be accomplished. Now, what do you have to tell
me?'

`Corradino, he ... has a daughter.'

The Salon de The in Petit Trianon reminded Corradino
very much of the Cantina Do Mori and as he entered the
cafe for his assignation he missed Venice like a blow to the
belly. As he sought the privacy of the backroom as instructed
in Duparcmieur's note he passed the patrons who had
borrowed the latest eastern fashions for their dress - the
Byzantine look was the latest in style, and the gaudy velvets made these genteel Parisians resemble Venetians. The
enclosed and exclusive rear area of the cafe was highly
decorated with frescoes and mirrors.

The French, it seems, steal all of their ideas from Venice. Even
me they stole.

As he sat and waited he began to wonder anew why
Duparcmieur had chosen to meet here, in a mirror image
of their first interview. Duparcmieur had been in the habit of coming to Corradino's house, or talking to him in the
Palace itself. It was no secret to his colleagues that
Duparcmieur was his protector, and that through him,
Corradino had a loftier patron; the King himself.

Perhaps there were some delicate negotiations to conduct
which demanded a convivial atmosphere. After all it was
close on a year since Corradino had come to France, and
they were nearing the appointed time for Leonora to come
to him. Corradino set his jaw. He would not budge in the
matter of Leonora. Every day he thought of her and how
it would be when they were together at last - holding her
sweet face in his hands, playing in the palace gardens as
he worked, or touching their fingers together in their
special way - this time without the grille of the Pieta in
between. Unconsciously, Corradino spread out his hand in
a star of longing - he could almost feel her little pads
pressed to his hard, printless fingertips.

I hope she has not forgotten. I cannot wait.

He felt a back settle against his - the bones of a spine
behind the nap of fine velvet.

Duparcmieur.

`Why here?' asked Corradino.

`Why not?'

The voice was not French. Not Duparcmieur. But the perfect, aristocratic patois of the Veneto. As he had done
a year before at the Cantina Do Mori, Corradino glanced
into the mirror at his side. His guts shrivelled within
him.

`I apologize for this unconventional meeting,' said
Ambassador Baldasar Guilini smoothly. `However, as we
have met before, I thought such convivial surroundings would
not offend you. Do you recall our meeting?'

Corradino swallowed. His thoughts flapped like moths
in a bottle. He must not give himself away.

`At the Palace, Excellency?'

`Yes, then. But before, a long time before. At the Arsenale.
You came with your father - he was ratifying a trading
treaty with the Dardanelles. Saffron, was it? Or Salt? Forgive
me, I forget the particulars of the case. But I remember
your father - a noble fellow, Corrado Manin.You resemble
him physically, which is your good fortune' The Ambassador
shifted. `Your ill fortune, of course, is that you resemble
him also in your propensity for treachery to the
Republic.'

Corradino's frozen heart plummeted. He knew that it
was over.

I am unmasked. I am dead. Should I run?

Corradino cast swift glances left and right at the laughing
patrons. Any one of them could be assassins, agents of The
Ten. It was no good.

As if echoing his resignation, the Ambassador continued.
`It's too late for you, of course. But if you make certain
amends, you may be able to save your daughter.'

Fear clutched Corradino's throat with a strangling grip.

How could they know? Dear God, please, not Leonora.

`What do you mean?' he choked, in a last desperate parry.
`What daughter?'

`Signor Martin, please. The one in the Pieta of course.
Leonora. The issue of your little amour with her mother
Angelina dei Vescovi. We knew of the affair, of course. But
not of the child. I expect old Prince Nunzio was ashamed
of the matter, as well he might be. No, we are obliged to
your mentor Giacomo del Piero for that information. It's
too late for him as well, of course' Baldasar Guilini sniffed
fastidiously, as if he smelled rotten carrion.

Corradino felt his blood turn to water. Giacomo dead!
And turned traitor on him, in a reflection of his own sin!
He glimpsed down the pit of horrors that must have forced
Giacomo to such a pass, and fought to restrain his terror.
He must save Leonora, at any cost. `What must I do?' It
was a whisper.

`There is but one thing you can do to secure her safety.
If you do this, she will be unharmed and may live out her
days in peace in the Pieta or in marriage!

`What? Dear God, what, anything.'

`We are aware, of course, that you have passed on somewhat of your specialist knowledge to an apprentice.
He, of course, will be taken care of.'

Jesu, not Jacques too. He was young; at least Giacomo had been
old. A sorry pair of men, at either end of life's journey, who
shared a name, a way with the glass, and a friendship for me
- the man who has murdered them both.

`What must I do?' Now, almost a scream. Corradino looked
savagely in the mirror, tired of the charade.

The Ambassador steepled his hands before his face and
blinked his hooded eyes. `You must go back.'

Alessandro had no clear plan. He walked down the Riva
degli Schiavoni in a daze, through the colourful crowds.
He did not know if he was angry or sad or sorry or all
these things. He didn't know whether to go back to Leonora
or just see her back at her flat later. He didn't know
whether to go back at all.

He needed peace to soothe his aching head. As he stumbled along in the direction of the Arsenale a dark door
welcomed him. He fell through it.

Dark, peace and cool respite from the sun. A church.
He was alone at last save for a single sacristan lighting
candles for mass in the Lady chapel. A smell of incense
that recalled the childhood masses at which he served as
an altar boy. Alessandro had not been one for church
since. But as he sank into the cool wooden pew he realized he had been to this church before. For over his head,
looming from the dark, was an exquisite chandelier. A veritable cathedral of spider-spun silk, which he remembered from times past.

The Pieta.

Alessandro smiled at the irony. He had come here to escape
Corradino, and yet his work was all around. And yet,
Alessandro too had history here - for it was here that he
had first seen Leonora. In that moment he knew he would
go back, knew he couldn't be without her. She was stubborn and wrongheaded, but he loved her. Baby or no baby,
he would go back.

A baby. Corradino had had a child too. Another Leonora.
With a jolt, Alessandro recalled what his Leonora had said:
`But she didn't die ... she lived happily ever after.' The
fairytale phrase revolved in his head, to be joined by
another.

Once upon a time Corradino's daughter had lived here.

All at once, like a revelation, Alessandro saw how it had
been. He saw in his mind the literal, pictorial definition
of the Pieta, seen a thousand times repeated as a favoured
motif of the Renaissance artists. The embodiment of pity;
the Virgin Mary cradling the dead, crucified Jesus. But
what Alessandro saw now in his mind's eye was the inversion of this trope. He and his unborn baby, and Corradino
holding his daughter in his arms. His baby. Alessandro rose like one who had witnessed a miracle. Corradino could
not leave his child behind for ever any more than Alessandro
could. Leonora was right - he must have saved her. He
would cross oceans, weather storms, fight dragons for the
flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. Corradino may have
been an artist and a genius but he was still a man, and
they shared this common bond. Just men after all. Alessandro
moved through the pews on respectful feet and approached
the sacristan who was lighting the flames, and as he asked
what he had to ask he felt the first flicker of humanity,
the first warmth of fellowship, for Corradino Manin.

Jacques waited for Corradino in the secret furnace room
at Versailles. He was not concerned by his master's lateness,
although it was, 'tis true, the first time he had been there
before Corradino. Jacques knew his master had the most
exalted of protectors - perhaps some business with the
King kept him?

As he waited he raddled the coals, and polished some
of the tools, idly twitching things into their proper places,
anxious to begin the work of the day. At the last he crossed
to the silvering vat, which he half filled with water from
a pail. Then he reached for the flask of liquid mercury and
poured the compound gingerly onto the surface where it
spread like oil. Jacques was careful not to pour too quickly,
for then the element could break into globules which
spoiled the perfect sheet of silver. As he set the flask back
down on the bench a perfectly round drop of the liquid
jumped onto his index finger. From habit borne of spills when cooking his meagre supper he almost carried the
finger to his mouth, then he remembered Corradino's
warning that the mere taste of mercury could mean death.
He wiped the digit carefully on his jerkin till all traces
were gone. Then he was drawn, inexorably, back to the
tank as the liquid settled and stilled into a mirrored sheet.
He was so busy watching his undulating reflection that he
did not turn to heed the key in the lock. He knew, in any
case, that it was his master that entered as none but the
two of them had the key.

Jacques was still watching his own image so closely that
he did not see the gloved hand which caught the back of
his neck and pushed his face into the silver poison.

It was not the first time that the Ospedale Civili Riuniti
di Venezia had admitted a woman in labour who was
wearing Carnevale costume. This was Venice, after all. How
could it be otherwise? And yet a significant crowd formed
and even the most hardened obstetricians were moved by
the sight of La Primavera herself twisting in the agony of
her burden. The sprigged dress was soaked with birthing
waters and clung to her legs.

In the delivery room decisions were made quickly. It
had taken a long while for the Signorina to get here, as she
was unaccompanied, and despite the fact that this was her
first baby the birth was well advanced. It was already too
late for an epidural, and moreover, the baby was breech.
The nuns attempted to offer comfort and relief, but, despite
the pain of her labour, Leonora was sensible of the fact
that she was alone, here in the very hospital where she
herself was born, and the baby was coming. Every couple of minutes a toothsome steel trap closed on her belly and
back, and she cried out for Alessandro. She was haunted
by Professore Padovani's story of another Leonora's
mother.

Angelina dei Vescovi, who died in childbirth ... died in childbirth.

She felt the same pains as that long-dead beauty. The pain
made them sisters over the span of centuries. At last she
lost consciousness, albeit briefly, and the nuns thanked Jesus
for the brief respite in what would surely be a long night.
The obstetrician, a man of many years of experience whose
ideas weren't working, noticed that even in her unconscious
state La Primavera clutched at her throat, as if searching for
a trinket that wasn't there.

As Corradino Manin looked on the lights of San Marco
for the last time, Venice from the lagoon seemed to him
a golden constellation in the dark blue velvet dusk. How
many of those windowpanes, that adorned his city like
costly gems, had he made with his own hands? Now they
were stars lit to guide him at the end of the journey of
his life. Guide him home at last.

As the boat drew into San Zaccaria he thought not - for
once - of how he would interpret the vista in glass with
a pulegoso of leaf gold and hot lapis, but instead that he
would never see this beloved sight again. He stood in the
prow of the boat, a brine-flecked figurehead, and looked
left to Santa Maria della Salute, straining to see the whitedomed bulk looming in its newness from the dark. The
foundations of the great church had been laid in 1631, the
year of Corradino's birth, to thank the Virgin for delivering the city from the Plague. His childhood and adulthood
had kept pace with the growing edifice. Now it was complete, in 1681, the year of his death. He had never seen
its full splendour in daylight, and now never would. He
heard a traghetto man mournfully calling for passenger trade
as he traversed the Canal Grande. His black boat recalled
a funeral gondola. Corradino shivered.