The Secret of the Glass (36 page)

Twenty-nine

T
he four women ate in a heavy, apprehensive silence, broken now and again by the clink of fork on plate or the clunk of glass on table. Sophia placed her utensil by her salver; in the last ten minutes, she had taken not a single bite, merely shuffled the thin rolls of sautéed, sauce-covered beef from one side of her dish to the other. Her grandmother made no pretense of eating, while her sisters toyed with their food, much as she herself had.

The creaking tread upon the stairs made them all sit up, intent and watchful, hopeful as their mother descended from the upper floor.

Viviana shuffled toward them and sat, dropping her exhaustion-laden body into the chair and slumping over, her tired eyes seeking out her mother-in-law.

“Would you sit with him for a while, Marcella? I must try to eat something.”

Marcella rose spryly from her chair, patting Viviana’s hand before rushing from the room and climbing the stairs to her son.

Zeno had not been out of his bed in days, and his moments of lucidity came less and less often, like the wavering light of a gutting candle. The pall of his ill health hung over the house and every person in it; they moved through their lives with dispassionate remoteness, pale reflections of themselves. Life continued on as always, chores must be done, the factory must continue to make the glass, but nothing seemed normal or real. As if held aloft by unraveling strings dropped down from heaven, in this void of existence they hoped for the best, but waited for the worst.

“It is dark in here,” Viviana said softly, squinting in the dim graininess of dusk light.

Sophia jumped up, grabbing a paper twist from the sideboard and used it to light the candles in holders scattered about the room and in the fixture hanging from the ceiling. Oriana grabbed a plate and began to fill it, adding a bit of everything from the many servers weighing down the table; Marcella had cooked all day long, as she did most days, the familiar motions serving as a panacea for her nerves.

“I will never eat that much,” Viviana chortled with a faint smile.

Oriana looked down at the overflowing plate in her hand with surprise. Viviana took it from her daughter’s quivering hands.

“Thank you,
mia cara.”

Oriana nodded and sat back down, clasping her hands together in her lap.

“Is he any better, Mamma?” Lia’s high-pitched, timid whisper sounded like a little girl’s and she appeared much like one huddled in her chair, hunched over her plate.

“Perhaps, a little,” Viviana said with forced lightness but her voiced cracked precipitously, telling its own tale. She took a bite of chicken livers sautéed with onions, capers, and artichokes. It was one of her favorite meals, one served exclusively in these summer months. But a bite was all she took. The fork stayed in her hand, her hand balanced on the elbow perched upon the table, but it remained unused; she stared out upon the expanse yet seemed to see nothing at all.

“I want you all to go to
Rendentore.”

“Oh no, Mamma,” Lia gasped.

“Not without you and Papa,” Sophia agreed with her sister’s objection with an adamant shake of her head.

The celebration of
Rendentore
had become one of the most treasured celebrations for the Venetian people, including the Fiolarios. It was a commemoration of gratitude, of redemption, thanking the Lord for saving them from the ravages of the plague. On the third Sunday in July the family attended at least one of the many festivals which became more and more grand every year. Some times they traveled to the small island of Giudecca, across from San Marco, and the white-domed church of
Il Rendentore.
Designed by Palladio and built in thanksgiving for Venice’s deliverance, the largest
festa
of them all took place at its
campo
. As the popularity of the celebration had grown, every large church in every
contradi
of Venice joined in the festivities, and those on Murano were no exception. The family had always attended the fete, always together.

“Do not argue with me, girls,” her mother snapped, perhaps more harshly than intended. Putting her fork down, she rubbed the smooth wood, one hand flat at each side of her plate, and offered a pale smile. “I want—
we
—want you to go. You know how much your father enjoys the
festivo;
it would disappoint him so much if you did not attend.”

Sophia relinquished her defiant posture, Oriana frowned, and Lia chewed on her bottom lip.

“Of course we will go, if it is truly what you and Papà wish.” Reaching across, she took one of her mother’s hands in hers, stilling their anxious gestures.

Viviana heaved a sigh, squeezing Sophia’s hand in response. “It is,
ringraziarla, mia cara
. You will do your father, and me, much good knowing you are having fun.”

Sophia stood with slow reluctance, thinking to argue once more, but the set of her mother’s jaw told her she would brook no more discussion on the topic.

“Come, Oriana, Lia,” Sophia called.

“Santino and Rozalia will light your way. I know they are just on their way out themselves,” Viviana instructed.

“
Sì
, Mamma,” Sophia said, certain the married couple that served the family since she was a baby had been ordered to attend and escort the girls through the deepening night.

The sisters gathered their veils and made for the front door. At its threshold, Lia threw off Sophia’s hand, rushed back to her mother, and bent over to wrap the woman in her arms.

Viviana smiled with soft rapture as the tenderness of a child’s love fell like a curative cloak upon her. She stroked her daughter’s arm where it lay draped across her chest.

“Have fun, Lia, eat many sweets.”

Lia giggled, her big round eyes moist but smiling. Returning to Sophia’s side, she took the outstretched hand waiting for her.

Stepping out onto the
fondamenta
the girls found the di Lucas waiting for them and Sophia smiled with quiet approbation at her mother’s authority. Small and plump, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, the middle-aged, childless couple loved these girls as they would their own, had God seen fit to bless them. Instead, he had brought them to the Fiolarios, and their service to the family had been a blessing itself; to serve and love, and be loved in return, by these caring people had been their destiny.

“Come,
cara
,” Rozalia threw a chubby arm around Lia’s slim shoulders, the lace covering upon her pinned-up gray hair wafting gently in the evening breeze. “You will have a wonderful time, I promise.”

Lia stayed between the protective confines of the di Lucas as Oriana and Sophia followed behind. The warmth of the day still rose up from the ground, warming their legs as the cool evening breeze off the water cooled their shoulders. Crickets thrummed faster and faster, spurred on by the growing heat of the summer days.

The small quiet group turned up the
fondamenta
and crossed the Ponte de Meso. As they grew close to San Pietro Martire, she wondered if Damiana was home, but then thought better of it. Her family, like Sophia’s, always celebrated
Rendentore
, more than likely at the church on La Guidecca. At the intersection of the Rio dei Vetrai and the larger Ponte Longo, they passed more and more revelers, cheerful partygoers, talking loudly and laughing riotously. Two obviously inebriated yet harmless men passed them, singing painfully off-key and guffawing at their own vocal inabilities. Lia giggled behind a cupped hand and Sophia wondered if her mamma was not right; perhaps they all needed a bit of amusement. Her father had loved to laugh, and to make others laugh; he would not want his illness to chase it from their lives.

With every step they drew closer to Santi Maria e Donato, the signs of merriment becoming more and more plentiful; musicians played in groups on every corner and peddlers hawked their wares, their glass potion bottles clinking as the men pushed their carts along. From rooftop
altane
, music and laughter flowed down. Groups of handsome young men swaggered by, greeting the young girls with respect, their tones laced with appreciation and innuendo. Oriana smiled flirtatiously, flashing them all a flutter of her azure eyes. Enticing aromas spiced the air and Sophia felt her stomach gurgle in anticipation, her appetite returning in the festive aura.

“Puppets,” Oriana cried with delight, clapping her hands.

Sophia laughed. Her sister noticed every handsome rake they encountered, staring at them hungrily, yet her childish delight of the marionettes had not fallen by the wayside of her womanhood.

They turned a corner and the vast Campo San Donato opened up to them, filled with activity, bursting with people, laughter, food, and music.

“We’ll let you girls wander on your own for a bit.” Santino di Luca leaned close to the small group, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophonous merrymaking. “But stay together. And don’t head back without us,
sì?”

“
Sì
, Santino,” the girls agreed, thankful to be left to their own devices.

“Signorina Fiolario, a moment,
per favore
.”

Sophia turned to the soft summons, blinking with surprise at the person she found rushing toward her. The face she recognized instantly; it belonged to the young woman whose acquaintance had been made with an accidental collision, but whose contact had caused such discomfort on Sophia’s first visit to the Doge’s Palace. The name she floundered for, Bianca, she mused, unsure if she had ever heard the woman’s last name. Sophia couldn’t prevent the frown from creasing her forehead and the pursing of her lips, nor could she force herself to turn and walk away as she wished she could do, had her mother not raised her so well and her curiosity not been so persuasive.

“
Buona notte
, signorina,” Sophia gave a curt genuflection, as did her sisters, though she had no intention of making any introduction.

The delicate blonde answered with her own curtsy and a hesitant smile. “
Buona notte
. I hope you are well this evening.”

“Yes, quite well.” Sophia could not keep a cynical lilt from her voice, skeptical that this woman’s wishes for her well-being were genuinely meant.

“I saw you speak with professore Galileo.”

Sophia’s stomach muscles clenched with heightened wariness.

“I am…he is…” Bianca licked her lips as if she could taste the right words to say. “He is an amazing man. There is so much we can learn from him.”

In all her wildest musings, Sophia would never have thought this woman knew of Galileo’s teachings, let alone supported them.

“
Sì
, he most certainly is,” she said with unfettered astonishment.

Bianca smiled, a small, sweet gesture, like a tiny treat placed upon her lips. Sophia answered with one as equally and genuinely meant.

“Enjoy your evening, signorine,” Bianca dipped gracefully once more.

“And you,” Sophia answered, her curtsy this time a deep and unaffected gesture of respect.

The pretty girl fairly skipped away and Sophia turned back to her sisters with a puzzled though pleased shake of her head.

“What was that all about?” Oriana asked with a whisper and a sly glance over her shoulder.

“I…I’m not quite sure,” Sophia answered honestly. “I know this, I am not wise enough to know what lies at the heart of every human.”

“But Sophia,” Lia leaned in, “I thought you knew everything?”

Oriana laughed and Sophia with her, but not without a tender pinch on her younger sister’s cheek.

Sophia took her sisters by the hands, leading them toward the right side of the crowded square.

“Come. I want to light a candle.” She led them toward the large doors of the Santi Maria e Donato church.

Once named just for the Madonna, the twelfth-century church had changed its title after the acquisition of the body of San Donato. The oddly angled, multi-leveled building was a perfect fusion of Romanesque design and Byzantine influence, and its rooftop stood out distinctively in the Murano skyline.

Sophia led them around the polygonal
dell’abside,
so enduring yet so delicate with its abundance of round niches and white stone columns. Lowering the lace of their veils before their faces, the girls entered the church through the round door set in the wide front of the building. The sisters were not alone in their need to make a petition; the main chapel and the two smaller side chapels separated by the high arches and marble columns were filled with the devoted at prayer.

Lighting their candles within the small reliquary, the girls knelt upon the hard bench, heads bowed before the Madonna high above them. Sophia prayed with fervency; surely, on this day of all, the Lord would hear her prayers for her father, would deliver upon him the redemption he so desperately needed. She heard a sniffle from her left. Lia’s entreaties had turned to tears.

Sophia stood and took her hand, pulling Lia up.

“Come, God has heard us by now, I’m sure,” she said. “Would you like some pastries?”

Lia nodded silently and Oriana stood with them, allowing their elder sibling to lead them from the murky confines of the church.

They opened the door, and the refrains of music and voices crept in to meet them, and dispel the reverent aura. As soon as they stepped through the egress, the visages of Teodoro Gradenigo and Alfredo Landucci rose up to greet them.

“Oh,” Sophia and Oriana said as if a chorus, but one spoke from surprise and the other from salacious delight.

Lia looked at them with equal confusion.

Teodoro’s eyes fell on Sophia and his lips split into that singular smile that belonged solely to her, as if she were the only one who could coax it from him. It was a gift he offered and she accepted it eagerly.

“
Buona notte
, signorine.” Teodoro bowed as did Alfredo beside him and the sisters curtsied in kind. “We saw you enter the church and thought we’d wait to pay our respects.”