The Glassblower of Murano (3 page)

Nora grew up amongst women. Her mother and grandmother, the women of Elinor's discussion groups; they were
her family. She grew up to be taught to develop her own
mind and her creativity. She was perpetually warned of
the ways of men. Nora was sent to an all-girl school in
Islington and showed an aptitude for arts. She was encouraged in her sculpture by Elinor who had dreams of her
daughter following in the footsteps of Michelangelo. But
Elinor had reckoned without the workings of fate and the
call of Nora's ancestors.

For whilst studying sculpture and ceramics at Wimbledon
School of Art Nora met a visiting tutor who had her own
glass foundry in Snowdonia. Gaenor Davis was in her sixties and made glass objets to sell in London, and she
encouraged Nora's interest in glass, and the blower's art.
Nora's fascination for the medium grew with the amberrose bubbles of glass that she blew and her expertise developed during a summer month spent at Gaenor's foundry.
With the fanciful, pretentious nature of the naive student
she saw her own self in the glass. This strange material was
at once liquid and solid, and had moods and a finite nature,
a narrow window in which she would allow herself to be
malleable before her nature cooled and her designs were
set, until the heat freed her again. Elinor, watching her
daughter's specialism become apparent, began to have the
uneasy feeling that that continuity, that enduring genome
that she had identified in Venice, would not be so easily
dismissed and was rising to the surface in her daughter.

But Nora had distractions - she was discovering men.
Having been largely ignorant of the male sex for the whole
of her childhood and adolescence, she found that she adored
them. None of her mother's bitterness had passed to her
- she surrounded herself with male friends and cheerfully
slept with most of them. After three years of sex and sculpture Nora embarked on a Masters degree in ceramics and
glass at Central St Martin's and there began to tire of
artistic men.They seemed to her without direction, without
conviction, without responsibility. She was ripe for a man
like Stephen Carey, and when they met in a Charing Cross
bar, her attraction was immediate.

He came from not the arts but the sciences - he was doctor. He wore a suit. He had a high-powered, well paid
job at Charing Cross Hospital. He was handsome, but in
a clean-shaven way - no stubble, no ironic seventies t-shirts,
no skater clothes. Their courtship was accelerated by similar feeling on Stephen's side - here was a beautiful, freethinking, artistic girl dressed in a slightly funky fashion,
charming him with a world he knew nothing of.

When Nora brought Stephen home to Islington Elinor
sighed inwardly. She liked Stephen - with his old-world manners and Cambridge education - but could see what was
happening. In her women' group her friends agreed. Nora
was seeking out her father, but what could Elinor do?

Elinor gave her daughter the glass heart that Bruno had
given her. She told Nora what she knew of her father's
family, of the famous Corradino Manin, in an attempt to
give her daughter a sense of paternal identity. But at that
time Nora was no more than momentarily interested - her
heart was full of Stephen. Nora finished her Masters and
was offered a teaching post, Stephen got a surgical residency
at the Royal Free, and there was nothing left to do but
get married. They did so in a solid conventional fashion
in Norfolk, with Stephen's wealthy family running the day.
Elinor sat through the ceremony in her new hat and sighed
again.

The couple went to Florence for their honeymoon at
Elinor's suggestion. Nora was enchanted by Italy, Stephen
less so.

Perhaps I should have sensed something wasn't right, even
then.

She now remembered that Stephen detested the traffic and
tourism of Florence. He resented her speaking to the locals
in her hard-learnt but fluent Italian. It was as if he resented
her heritage - felt threatened. In the Uffizi he himself
braided her hair again after his brief, uncharacteristic
moment of romance in front of the Botticelli. He said that
her blondeness attracted too much unwanted attention in
the street. Yet even with her hair bound she collected
admiring glances from the immaculately dressed young
men who hunted in designer-suited packs of five or ten,
raising their sunglasses and whistling.

It was Stephen, too, who had resisted her suggestion to
call herself Leonora again - too fancy, he said, too Mills
and Boon. She had kept the name Manin for her work,
as she exhibited her glassware in a small way in some
London Galleries. Her chequebook and cashcards, however,
said Carey.

Nora wondered if Stephen had only accepted Nora Manin
because it sounded as if it could be English. Few people
identified Manin as an Italian name, with no giveaway
vowel at the end.

Is it because Stephen resented my `Italian-ness' that I am anxious
to embrace it so wholeheartedly, now he is gone?

Nora turned from the luggage and searched in her makeup
bag for her talisman. Among the mascara wands and bright
palettes of colour she found what she was looking for. She
held the glass heart in her hand, marvelling at its iridescence. It seemed to capture the light of the bathroom's
fluorescent tube and hold it within itself. She threaded a
blue hair ribbon through the hole in its crease and tied it
round her neck. Over the last horrible months it had
become her rosary, her touchstone for all the hopes of the
future. She would hold it tight as she cried at those 4am
wakings and tell herself if she could only get to Venice,
everything would be alright.

The second part of her plan she did not want to think
about yet - she had told no-one, and could barely even
say it to herself as it sounded such a ridiculous, fanciful
notion. `I am going to Venice to work as a glassblower. It
is my birthright' She spoke to her reflection, aloud, clearly
and defiantly. She heard the words, unnaturally loud in the
quiet of the small hours, and cringed. But in determination, she clasped the heart tighter and looked again at her
reflection. She thought she looked a little more courageous
and felt cheered.

There were letters cut into the stone.

The words on the plaque which adorned the Orphanage
of the Pieta were thrown into sharp relief by the midday
sun. Corradino's fingers scored the grooves of the inscription. He knew well what it said;

`Fulmine it Signor Iddio maledetione e scomuniche ... May the
Lord God strike with curses and excommunications all
those who send or permit their sons and daughters -
whether legitimate or natural - to be sent to this hospital
of the Pieta, having the means and ability to bring them
up.

Did you read these words, Nunzio dei Vescovi, you old bastard?
Seven years ago to this day, when you abandoned your only
grandchild here? Did you feel the guilt pressing on your heart? Did you look over your shoulder in fear of the Lord God and
the Pope as you slunk home to your palazzo and your coffers
of gold?

Corradino looked down at the worn step and pictured the
newborn girl swaddled there, still slick with birthblood.
Birthblood and deathblood, for her mother had died on
her childbed. Corradino clenched his fists till the nails
bit.

I do not want to think of Angelina.

He turned instead to find peace in the view across the
lagoon. He liked to study the water and gauge its mood
- today in sunshine the waves resembled his ghiaccio work
- blown blue glass, several different hues, melted together
and plunged in ice to give a finely crackled surface.
Corradino had refined the art ofghiaccio by floating sulfate
of silver on the surface of the iced water. This way the
hot glass would accept the metal as it cracked and seal it
within when it cooled, giving the impression of sunlit
water. The sight of the laguna looking exactly thus gave
him confidence.

I am a master. No-one can make the glass sing like I do. I an
the best glassblower in the world. I hear the water reply; yes, but
that is why the French want you and no-one else.

He looked across the lagoon to San Giorgio Maggiore,
and watched the spice boats pass the unfinished church
of Santa Maria della Salute. The rich reds and yellows of
the spices and the dark hues of the merchants' skins were
framed by the clean white stones of the vast structure.
These were all sights that he relished. Gondolas sliced
the water and courtesans rode bare-breasted and wanton
in their Carnevale finery. Corradino admired not their
flesh but the silk of their gowns. The colour and form
of the falling material as it caught the sun. The rainbow
of hues like the inside of an oyster. He watched for a
while, enjoying one of his rare moments of freedom from
the foundry, from the fornace, from Murano. He admired
the axe shaped prow of the gondola, with the six branches
to denote the six sestiere or regions of the city. The city
he loved. The city he was leaving tomorrow. He said the
names over to himself, rolling the words on his tongue
like a poem or a prayer.

Cannaregio, Dorsoduro, Castello, Santa Croce, San Polo and San
Marco.

In time the wash of the gondola reached him, slapping
gently against the mossy marble of the dock, and brought
him to himself. He must not tarry too long.

I have a present for her.

Corradino ducked down the calle at the side of the church
of Santa Maria della Pieta which adjoined the Orphanage.
He peered through the ornamental grille that allowed
passersby to see through to the cool darkness within. He
could see a group of the orphan girls with their viols and
violoncellos, with their sheet music. Seated at the edge he
could see her blonde head bobbing as she talked to her
friends. He saw, too, the head of Father Tommaso at the
front, tonsured by nature, instructing a group that stood
ready to sing. Now was his moment.

With his indifferent voice echoing in the calle, Corradino
began to sing a well known tune used by meat traders or
pastry sellers to attract buyers to their wares. The words,
however, were changed, so that only one person would
know him for who he was, and she, alone, would come
to him:

`Leonora mia, bo bo bo,

Leonora mia, bo bo bo.'

Soon she was there at the grille, her little fingers curled
through the ornamental panel to touch his. `Boon giorno
Leonora.!

'Buon giorno Signore:

`Leonora, I told you that you can call me Papa!

'Si Signore.'

But she smiled. He loved her sense of humour and the
way she had become familiar enough with him to take
liberties. He supposed she was growing up - soon she
would be a practised coquette of marriageable age.

`Did you bring me a present?ff

'Well, now, let's see. Perhaps you can tell me how old
you are today?'

More little digits pushed through the grille. Five, six,
seven. `Seven:

`That's right. And haven't I always given you presents on
your name day?'

`Always:

`Well, let's hope I haven't forgotten it.' He made a pantomime of searching through his smock and all his jerkin
pockets. At last he reached behind his ear and pulled out
the glass heart. With relief he saw his measurements were
correct as he pushed the gem easily through the grille and
heard Leonora gasp as it fell into her hand. She turned it
over on her little palm to admire the captured light.

`Is it magic?' she asked.

`Yes. A special sort. Come closer and I'll explain.'

Leonora pressed her face to the grille. The sun caught
the gold motes in her green eyes and Corradino's heart
failed him.

There's some beauty in this world I could never recreate.

`Ascolta, Leonora. I have to go away for a while. But that
heart will tell you that I will always be with you, and when
you look at that heart and hold it in your hand you will
know how much I love you. Try it now'

Her fingers closed round the heart, putting out the light.

She closed her eyes. `Can you feel it?' Corradino asked.

Leonora opened her eyes again and smiled `Yes,' she
said.

`See, I told you it was magic. Now do you have that
ribbon I gave you on your last name-day?'

She nodded.

`Well push it through the special hole I made and hang
it round your neck. Don't let the Prioress see it, or Father
Tommaso, or lend it to the other girls.' She clasped the
heart and nodded again.

`Are you going to come back?'

He knew he could not. `Someday.'

She thought for a moment. `I'll miss you.'

He suddenly felt that his insides had been gutted, like
the fish in the Pescheria market. He wished he could tell
her of what he had planned - that he would send for her
a soon as it was safe. But he dare not trust himself. The
less she knew the better.

What she does not know, she cannot not tell; what she cannot
tell, cannot not hurt her. And I know too well the poison that is
hope, the waiting and the wanting. What if I can never send for
her?

So he only said; `I'll miss you too, Leonora mia.'

She pushed her fingers through the grille again in their
acknowledged sign. He caught the message and placed
each of his printless pads on her tiny finger tips, little finger to little finger, thumb to thumb.

Suddenly the door to the calle opened and the tonsured
head appeared. `Corradino, how many times do I have to
tell you not to come sniffing round my girls? Is that not
how this sorry mess came to pass in the first place? Leonora,
return to the orchestra, we are ready to begin.'

With a last glance, Leonora was gone, and Corradino
muttered an apology and made as if to leave. But when
the priest had gone back inside the church, he stole back
down the calle and listened as the music began. The sweetness of the harmony, and the soaring counterpoint, bled
into his soul. Corradino knew what would happen, but
he gave in to it.