The Glassblower of Murano (8 page)

Nora stumbled into the daylight, dizzy with disbelief. She
looked at the long low red building that was her new
workplace, at the small ranks of red houses by the canal,
and the faded street sign on the wall. She stared.

The Fondamenta Manin. Manin Street. The main street of Murano
is named for Corradino. For Daniele. For me.

The spires of San Marco spiked in the distance, a tiara of
piercing beauty crowning the lagoon. Nora had never seen
Venice from such an aspect before. She jumped as high as
she could and screamed with joy, and went to join the
baffled Germans on the waiting boat.

From his office window, Adelino watched her, and narrowed his eyes meditatively in an unfathomable expression
which his late wife would have recognized as a danger
sign. His gaze lighted on the same street sign that Nora
had just seen. The Fondamenta Manin. The whole place
was named for her. Her family is glassblowing, time out
of mind. She had talent - talent that would quickly grow.
She had the great Corradino on her team. And she was
certainly beautiful.

He turned his back on the vista and faced his office and
reality. This was not the seventeenth century. No longer
did this foundry, or this city, hold the monopoly on glassmaking. Murano and San Marco were crammed with glass
factories and gift shops selling gew-gaws and bon-bons of glass, confections for the tourists to take home. Competition
for the patronage of the wealthier tourists, those Americans
or Japanese who would invest in a larger piece, was fierce.
Adelino was forced to make ruinous deals with the more
exclusive hotels to run glass tours, and more often than
not in these times the tourists would take photos and get
back in their boats having ordered nothing from his
shop.

He sat down heavily at his desk. His business was in
trouble, so why had he just hired a green girl, whom he
would have to pay a wage? Why were his fingertips damp
with perspiration? Why did his heart quicken? Adelino
began to tingle, as the age-old mercantile tides ebbed and
flowed in his veins. A lovely girl, a famous genius of an
ancestor, and his own struggling glass factory.They all added
up to one word; Opportunity. It was one of his favourites.

Four days later, Elinor Martin received a well-wrapped
parcel at her Islington home. It was a Venetian glass mirror
of great beauty, sprigged with glass flowers so delicate it
seemed as if they lived. There was no note. Elinor sat at
the kitchen table, looking in the mirror resting on the
debris of its wrappings, at her sixty-year-old face. She began
to cry, her hot tears splashing the cool glass.

She felt as if somehow, from beyond the grave, the mirror
was from Bruno.

The Questura in Castello was an attractive building. Like
many municipal offices in Venice, the Police Station had
a past life as a palazzo and its former existence was betrayed
by the Moorish mullions of its windows. Even so, Nora
would have been happy to visit it just the once.

This was not to be.The slow workings ofVenetian administration meant that this was her sixth visit in four weeks.
She had filled in form after form, all with incomprehensible
names or numbers. She had produced every single paper
or certificate that had documented her life, from birth
certificate to driving licence. And each time she had dealt
with a different policeman, recounting her tale from the
beginning, dealing with reactions that ran the gamut from
frank incredulity to plain indifference. This English Signorina
had somehow been given an apprenticeship with the maestri
on Murano, and now needed a living permit and a work
permit. Each official had a different take on her plight.

The Signorina must have a rental address in Venice, then
after she had attained her living permit, or permesso di sog-
giorno, she would then apply for the permesso di lavoro, or
work permit. No, said another, she must be given her
permesso di lavoro first, then have it ratified by her employer,
then she would qualify to take rental quarters in the sestiere,
then she could apply for a permesso di sogiorno.

I want to scream.

Nora's manner had metamorphosed over these visits from
the friendly, slightly ignorant blonde demeanour that she
had found all her life to work well with officialdom, to
the hard-nosed, demanding manner of a harridan. The
progress of her application, however, had stayed exactly the
same, retaining its state of complete inertia.

I have a recurring dream where I'm floating underwater in the
lagoon, gasping for breath, but unable to swim to the surface
because I'm bound with reams and reams of red tape.

Today, a peerless autumn day, she entered the door of the
police station with steely determination, her features brittle
with counterfeit smiles.

I have been in Venice for a full month. I need to get this
sorted.

The last month had passed with that strange elasticity which
characterizes significant periods of life. On the one hand,
the time had slipped by with a rapidity which surprised
Nora. On the other, she could not believe that it was only
four weeks ago that she had been living at Belmont, amid
the detritus of her dead marriage. She had worked hard
at the furnaces from that first Monday, when she had
entered the fornace with an air of one going to school for
the first time. She had bound her hair in a scarf and worn
her oldest jeans in an effort to blend in as much as possible. It had not worked. The heat was such that in the
space of half an hour she had shed the scarf and was
working in jeans, bare feet and a vest top, to predictable
comments from the others.

But all in all, Nora's first day at the fornace was both
exhausting and exhilarating. Most of the men were guardedly friendly, in a manner which made her suspect that
they had been given instruction by Adelino. Two of the
younger glassblowers, a goodlooking pair who seemed to
be somewhat of a double act, were friendly and helpful
and watched her progress with dark, appraising eyes. She
left when the others did, congratulating herself on having
made no major mistakes that day, and was gratified when
her two young colleagues asked her to come for a drink
with the others. Adelino was not with them, but thinking
herself safe in numbers Nora followed gratefully along the
Fondamenta Manin to a warmly-lit welcoming bar. The
maestri were clearly regulars, as their `usual' ten Peroni beers sat ready on the bar like the green bottles of the song.
Nora collapsed on the bar stool chivalrously proffered by
Roberto and rolled her head around on her aching neck.
She heard some of the gathered men joking about offering
her a massage and she smiled along.

I must get used to barracking and locker-room jokes; I must not
be phased by it all. This is a man's world - always has been
- and I have to learn to fit in. No princess behaviour.

She pressed the cold bottle of Peroni to a forehead still
hot and flushed from the furnace's kiss, and felt the welcome chill of condensation dripping to her cheek. She
took a long cool slug of the beer and, as her lips touched
the bottle and her teeth chinked the glass she thought
of the continuity of the glassmakers' art. Here in her hand
was the equivalent of the wares produced by Corradino
and his colleagues, but now mass-produced, recycled, soulless and utilitarian. Above the bar MTV blared, interrupting her thoughts, and Roberto beckoned her to a
small corner table which Luca had already secured. Nora
sat, smiled, and answered their questions about London,
Chelsea FC and Robbie Williams in that order. In turn,
she discovered that both men were the sons of glassblowers.

`In fact,' said Luca, `Roberto here has the longest glassblowing history of all of us here, even though he's the
youngest'

`But the most talented,' put in Roberto, his white grin
mitigating the boast.

`Actually, that's annoyingly true,' countered Luca. `Old
Adelino is always blowing smoke up your arse.!

`He says I've inherited the family "breath",' Roberto
explained modestly to Nora.

'Yeah,' said Luca holding his nose, `I think I know what
he means. You stink.'

Roberto cuffed Luca and they both roared with laughter.
Nora shifted in her seat and suddenly felt very old. These
boys were charming, but a bit ... immature? She dragged
the conversation back to her point of interest and addressed
Roberto. `Your family? They've always been in the
trade?'

`For ever. Right back to the seventeenth century, in fact.
My ancestor, Giacomo del Piero, was the foreman of our
very fornace back then.'

The seventeenth century! Corradino would have been here too!
Could the two men have known each other?

`I suppose,' Nora began nonchalantly, suppressing her excitement, `that there were many different fornaci here then?'

`No,' said Luca, who seemed slightly more intellectual
than his colleague, `in those days, there was only one glass
foundry on Murano. Venice was still a Republic so it was
easier to control the monopoly that way. All the glassmakers
in Venice lived and died here after the foundry was moved in 1291; actually they were threatened with death if they
tried to leave, and if anyone escaped their families were
imprisoned or murdered to force the fugitives to return.
Luca paused to emphasise this ghoulish fact and took a
swig of beer. `After the city state fell many more factories
grew up here; there were about three hundred factories
in the city then. But then Murano declined once the glass
monopoly was lost and other nations learned how to make
good glass. In 1805 the glass guild was abolished, the furnaces shuttered and the artists scattered throughout
Europe.'

`It's a very different trade now,' put in Roberto. `In
Giacomo's time, all kinds of glass were made here, from
the humblest bottle,' he waved his Peroni in an echo of
Nora's own thoughts, `to the finest mirrors. Now, everyday
glassware is made in huge bottle plants in Germany, or at
Dulux in France or Palaks in Turkey. Our only lifeline is
the quality market - the "art" if you like. Tourists are our
only buyers, and our foundry only gets a small part of that
market. Competition is fierce now. In fact,' here he looked
speculatively at Nora, `you were lucky to be taken on.'

Nora lowered her eyes as Roberto took a slug at his
beer. She felt uncomfortable, almost slighted, but Roberto
carried on.

`So you could say Giacomo was the best back then,' he
concluded, `as he was the foreman of the only factory.'

She noticed how Roberto talked of ancient history as
if it were no more than a heartbeat ago. `You speak of him as if you knew him,' she said, recognizing something of
her own sentiments.

`All Venetians do that,' said Roberto smiling. `Here the
past is all around. It happened only yesterday.'

Nora recognized the connection to his ancestor that she
felt for Corradino, and this decided her; she would share
her history. `This is all really strange, because my ancestor
worked here too, around the same time. He must have
known Giacomo. His name was Corrado Manin, known
as Corradino. Have you heard of him?'

Roberto's face went suddenly still. He exchanged a look
with Luca. `No,' he said abruptly. `Sorry. Another Peroni?'
He rose at once and headed to the bar without waiting
for a reply.

Nora sat stunned, her face tingling as if from a slap. What
was bothering the man? She turned to Luca who bathed
her in a charming smile. `Don't mind Roberto. He's a bit
funny about his ancestor. Thinks he owns the fornace. He's
always trying to get Adelino to raise his profile, and sell
the glass on the del Piero name. Probably thought you
were trying to muscle in.'

`But ... I wasn't ... I didn't .. '

`Really, it's cool. Forget it. Here he comes'

As Roberto returned with three more Peroni Nora did
her best to be particularly charming, flattering him with
questions about glassblowing in an effort to atone for her
gaffe, although she was still not entirely clear what she had
done wrong. Roberto unbent and showed some signs of being mollified, but there was something else there too
- as time passed he was getting heavily drunk. The hour
was becoming late and Nora began to fret about her boat
back to Venice, when it suddenly occurred to her that Luca
had gone to the toilet about twenty minutes ago and not
come back. She glanced around the bar but he was nowhere
to be seen, and moreover, all the other maestri had gone
too. She recognized no one.

Oh Christ.

Nora sighed gustily. She was suddenly transported back
ten years to St Martin's, when it had been her unhappy
duty to shepherd maudlin friends home when they had
had a skinful. Surely she did not have to do that now, at
her age, for this drunken boy? She swore under her breath
and took Roberto's arm, helping him to stagger outside.
He swayed gently at the canalside, and she wondered if he
was going to be sick, but then he smiled unsteadily and
lunged towards her, planting his mouth roughly on hers.

Nora's response was so Victorian it surprised her. She
pushed him roughly away and fetched him a stinging slap
which nearly sent him into the canal.That sobered Roberto
up. His good looks disappeared as the handsome mouth
curled into a sneer, and Nora suddenly felt afraid. `Come
on,' he said, moving in once more. `You owe me something,
you Manin slut.'

Nora turned and ran.

She didn't stop until she came to the Faro vaporetto stop,
but the thought occurred that Roberto too would make
his way here, as it was the nearest fermata on the island.
Shaken and edgy, aware that she was the only one waiting,
she hailed a passing water taxi and spent far too much
money getting back to her hotel.

The next day and for many others she reaped her reward.
Roberto had done his work - none of the men talked
to her at all now. She wondered what he had told them
all about her that was so bad that even the affable Luca
barely acknowledged her. Roberto either ignored her, or
attempted to make her life difficult with little shows of
petulance or spite. Her tools would go missing, her own
small experiments in glass would be found broken. With
growing incredulity Nora realized that she was being
bullied. She began to feel the same dread that she had
felt at school when she encountered the sixth form girls
with too much eyeliner who called her `hippy' because
of her long hair. She had never dreamed that a man could
be so vindictive to a woman who had turned down his
charms - she had assumed that after the incident she
would merely drop off Roberto's radar. Sometimes she
would feel a chill on her neck and turn to find him
staring at her with such freezing hatred that she felt sure
that there must be something wrong with him - something that drove him to hate her over and above
sexual rejection.