The Glassblower of Murano (30 page)

He considered whether he should remove his white bauta
mask as soon as his feet touched the shore; a poetic moment
- a grand gesture on his return to the Serenissima.

No, there is one more thing I must do before they find me.

He closed his black cloak over his shoulders against the
darkling mists and made his way across the Piazzetta under
cover of his tricorn and bauta. The traditional tabarro
costume, black from head to foot save the white mask,
should make him anonymous enough to buy the time he
needed. The bauta itself, a spectral slab of a mask shaped
like a gravedigger's shovel, had the short nose and long
chin which would eerily alter his voice if he should speak.
Little wonder, he thought, that the mask borrowed its name
from the `haubau', the `bad beast' which parents invoked to
terrify their errant children.

From habit borne of superstition Corradino moved swiftly
through the two columns of San Marco and the SanTeodoro
that rose, white and symmetrical, into the dark. The Saint
and the chimera that topped their pediments were lost in the blackness. It was bad luck to linger there, as criminals
were executed between the pillars - hung from above or
buried alive below. Corradino made the sign of the cross,
caught himself, and smiled. What more bad luck could
befall him? And yet his step still quickened.

There is one misfortune that could yet undo me: to be prevented
from completing my final task.

As he entered the Piazza San Marco he noted that all that
was familiar and beloved had taken on an evil and threatening cast. In the bright moon the shadow of the Campanile
was a dark knife slashing across the square. Roosting pigeons
flew like malevolent phantoms in his face. Regiments of
dark arches had the square surrounded - who lurked in
their shadows? The great doors of the Basilica were open;
Corradino saw the gleam of candles from the golden belly
of the church. He was briefly cheered - an island of brightness in this threatening landscape.

Perhaps it is not too late to enter this house of God, throw myself
on the mercy of the priests and seek sanctuary?

But those who sought him also paid for this jewelled shrine
that housed the bones ofVenice's shrivelled Saint, and tiled
the walls with the priceless glittering mosaics that now
sent the candlelight out into the night. There could be no
sanctuary within for Corradino. No mercy.

Past the Basilica then and under the arch of the Torre
dell'Orologio he hurried, allowing himself one more glance
at the face of the huge clock, where tonight it seemed the
fantastical beasts of the zodiac revolved in a more solemn
measure. A dance of death. Thereafter Corradino tortured
himself no more with final glances, but fixed his eyes on
the paving underfoot. Even this gave him no respite, for
all he could think of was the beautiful tessere glasswork he
used to make; fusing hot nuggets of irregular glass together,
all shapes and hues, before blowing the whole into a wondrous vessel delicate and colourful as a butterfly's wing.

I know I will never touch the glass again.

As he entered the Merceria dell'Orologio the market traders
were packing away their pitches for the night. Corradino
passed a glass-seller, with his wares ranked jewel-like on
his stall. In his mind's eye the goblets and trinkets began
to glow rosily and their shapes began to shift - he could
almost feel the heat of the furnace again, and smell the
sulphur and silica. Since childhood such sights and smells
had always reassured him. Now the memory seemed a
premonition of hellfires. For was hell not where traitors
were placed? The Florentine, Dante, was clear on the subject. Would Corradino - like Brutus and Cassius and Judas
- be devoured by Lucifer, the Devil's tears mingling with
his blood as he was ripped asunder? Or perhaps, like the
traitors that had betrayed their families, he would be encased for all eternity in `... un lago the per gelo avea di vetro e non
d'acqua sembiante ... a lake that, frozen fast, had lost the
look of water and seemed glass.' Corradino recalled the
words of the poet and almost smiled.Yes, a fitting punishment - glass had been his life, why not his death also?

Not if I do this last thing. Not if I am granted absolution.

With a new urgency he doubled back as he had planned
and took the narrow bridges and winding alleys or caller
that led back to the Riva degli Schiavoni. Here and there
shrines were set into the corners of the houses - well-tended
flames burned and illumined the face of the Virgin.

I dare not look in her eyes, not yet.

At last the lights of the Orphanage at the Ospedale della
Pieta drew near and as he saw the candlelight warmth he
heard too the music of the viols.

Perhaps it is she that plays - I wish it were so - but I will
never know.

He passed the grille without a glance inside and banged
on the door. As the maid approached with a candle he did
not wait for her inquisition before hissing: `Padre Tommaso
- subito!' He knew the maid - a surly, taciturn wench who
delighted in being obstructive, but tonight his voice carried such urgency that even she turned at once and soon the
priest came.

`Signore?'

Corradino opened his cloak and found the leather gourd
of French gold. Into the bag he tucked the vellum notebook, so she would know how it had been and one day,
perhaps, forgive him. He took a swift glance around the
dim alley - no, no-one could have drawn close enough
to see him.

They must not know she has the book.

In a voice too low for any but the priest to hear he said:
`Padre, I give you this money for the care of the orphans
of the Pieta.' The mask changed Corradino's voice as he
had intended. The priest made as if to take the bag with
the usual formula of thanks, but Corradino held it back
until the father was forced to meet his eyes. FatherTommaso
alone must know him for who he was. `For the orphans,'
said Corradino again, with emphasis.

Recognition reached the priest at last. He turned over
the hand that held the bag and looked closely at the fingertips - smooth with no prints. He began to speak but
the eyes in the mask flashed a warning. Changing his mind
the father said, `I will make sure they receive it,' and then,
as if he knew; `may God bless you. 'A warm hand and a
cold one clasped for an instant and the door was closed.

Corradino continued on, he knew not where, until he was well away from the Orphanage.

Then, finally, he removed his mask.

Shall I walk on till they find me? How will it be done?

At once, he knew where he should go. The night darkened
as he passed through the streets, the canals whispering
goodbye as they splashed the calli, and now at last Corradino
could hear footsteps behind keeping pace. At last he reached
the Calle della Morta - the street of death - and stopped.
The footsteps stopped too. Corradino faced the water and,
without turning, said, `Will Leonora be safe?'

The pause seemed interminable - splash, splash - then
a voice as dry as dust replied.

`Yes. You have the word of The Ten.'

Corradino breathed relief and waited for the final act.

As the knife entered his back he felt the pain a moment
after the recognition had already made him smile. The
subtlety, the clarity with which the blade insinuated itself
between his ribs could only mean one thing. He started
to laugh. Here was the poetry, the irony he had searched
for on the dock. What an idiot, romanticizing himself,
supposing himself a hero in the drama and pathos of his
final sacrifice. All the time it was they who had planned
the final act with such a sense of theatre, of what was fitting, an amusing Carnevale exit. A Venetian exit. They had
used a glass dagger - Murano glass.

Most likely one of my own making.

He laughed harder with the last of his breath. He felt the
assassin's final twist of the blade to snap handle from haft,
felt his skin close behind the blade to leave no more than
an innocent graze at the point of entry. Corradino pitched
forward into the water and just before he broke the surface
he met his own eyes in his reflection for the first and last
time in his life. He saw a fool laughing at his own death.
As he submerged in the freezing depths, the water closed
behind his body to leave no more than an innocent graze
at the point of entry.

From the shadows of the Calle della Morte, Salvatore
Navarro - the new foreman of the fornace on Murano -
watched, terrified. He had been given this time and place
by an agent of The Ten and been told to attend on pain
of death. Coming so lately upon the death in the Piombi
of his predecessor Giacomo del Piero, he had dared not
refuse. As he watched the demise of the great Corradino
Manin, a man he had looked up to since his days as a
garzon, he knew he was here as a witness. That he was
expected to go back to Murano and tell all that he had
seen.

And that he, and all other glassblowers through him, were
being given a warning.

Alessandro followed the sacristan as they wound upward
in a small spiral staircase leading from the vestry of the
Pieta.

`It's not a library as such, mostly old music books and
some records,' the sacristan continued, his words punctuated
by the whispering of his flowing robes. `Once, of course,
we had a very significant collection ofVivaldi's handwritten
scores. After his popularity revived in the nineteen-thirties
we had our book collection properly stored at the correct
temperature and insured. That collection is in a museum
in Vienna where he died. Are you a student of Vivaldi?'
The sacristan did not seem to need an answer but launched
into his well rehearsed guidebook version of the red priest's
life. Alessandro climbed higher and fought to remain polite.
At other times he would have been deeply interested in
the history, today he was fired with a quite indecent urge
to push past the kind old man and rush ahead into the library. Each turn of the stair seemed the thread of a screw
that wound Alessandro's impatience ever tighter. At last
they reached an ancient door and Alessandro fidgeted whilst
the sacristan went through what seemed like dozens of
keys. At last the right one fitted. Turned.

The small room was barely lit by one arched window.
Golden motes of dust danced in its light. The draught of
the opening door caused the dead-leaf rustle of pages
which whispered that no one had read these volumes for
years. From floor to ceiling they were piled, not shelved;
the dusty bookstacks of Prospero. Alessandro forgot the
cant of his guide as he looked around. It would not take
long to find what he sought, if it was here, if it existed.
He turned decisively.

`Padre. I am most grateful for your guidance. Could I
beg you to excuse me while I take a little look around
here? I'm sure you have other things to do. I'll be most
careful, I promise.'

The sacristan set back a little, but then his eyes crinkled.
They held the exquisite trust of a man of God, one that
believes the world holds no ill. He patted Alessandro's arm.
`A private matter. I see. I'll be downstairs.'

Alessandro flashed his most charming of smiles as the
robe whispered from the room.

Then he turned to his task.

There were perhaps a thousand volumes here. Not many.

But if what he sought was here, it would betray itself by
its size. He anticipated his search would take a few hours.
But after perusing only two floor-to-ceiling stack's worth
of books, finding only leather bound music scores and
hymnbooks, he saw it. Wedged between the horizontal
stacks was a small vellum volume, bound in fine calfskin,
the best Venetian workmanship. As he had guessed, the size
told the secret.

A book of days. A notebook. A diary.

Alessandro sank to the floor and the velvet of his costume
rose around him. He could have been a man from another
age as he sat in the pool of cloth, in this ancient chamber,
the light from the window turning him back to a painting.
His hands shook as he realized this was it - the notebook
whose existence he had assumed but not been certain.
Surely this was the grail at the end of Leonora's quest?
But as he turned the fine pages, wondering at the crabbed
script, the detailed drawings, the scrawled measurements
and mathematics, a new notion held him. What if this
book confirmed her fears?

And so it was. Alessandro's fingertips were suddenly
soaked, and the thin vellum began to bubble beneath their
wetness till he hurriedly wiped his hands on his robe. For
here it was, proof - irrevocable and incontrovertible. The
last pages were measurements and drawings that pertained
to the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Alessandro sat back as the enormity engulfed him. In a legacy of treachery, that
room had once housed Vittorio Orlando, Prime Minister
of Italy. Had Orlando and the other signatories -Woodrow
Wilson, Lloyd George, Georges Clemenceau - looked into
Corradino's glass as they had cut the heart and soul out
of Germany in that `Treaty' of 1919, and set in train the
inevitable grinding machine which led to the Second World
War? Ill deeds bred ill deeds, never more so than here.
Alessandro could have wept. He had solved the mystery,
but brought the answer Leonora dreaded.

Leonora.

His eye caught her name on the page - the last pair of
pages in the book. Here the writing was different - scrawled,
passionate, not exact and mathematical, and here and there
was a splash of brine or tears. So Alessandro sat and read
the letter Corradino had written to his daughter, which
could have been written to Leonora, his Leonora, herself.

Someone was screaming and crying. Twisting in blood and
mess on the sheets. It sounded like Leonora's own voice.

How many hours have I been this way?