The Secret of the Glass

by Morin, Donna Russo

  A pulsing, never-ending mass of people swirled and jostled the sisters; westerners in familiar attire, easterners in exotic saris and turbans created a painter’s palette of colors and a quilt of materials.

  Oriana spied her elders among the thinning throng trailing off the barge.

  “Papà, Mamma, Nonna,” she called, waving her hand high above her head, her gestures broadening as Sophia shushed at her, attempting, as her high-boned cheeks reddened, to spurn any undue attention her sister’s more gregarious nature might attract.

  “Sì. Hurry, hurry.” Lia picked up where Oriana left off, laughing as Sophia punished her with a scathing sidelong glance.

  The Fiolarios waved back with relaxed nonchalance, making their way to the shore in their own good time; no matter how fast they moved it would not be fast enough for these excited youngsters. At the end of the boat ramp, Zeno gathered his family into a tight group, putting on the silk cap that would protect the tender skin of his thinly-haired pate.

  “We shall take a gondola today, sì? All the way to the piazza.” His pale eyes sparkled below bouncing brows.

  “Zeno!” His wife’s shocked gasp rose above the exultant trill of her daughters.

  Viviana Boccalini Fiolario’s elegant and dark features, distinctive and still as beautiful as when she had been a girl, blanched. She took three quick steps toward her husband. Even in her trepidation, her curvaceous full figure moved with grace, her hips swayed with the seduction so particular to females of the Adriatico.

  “Is such an expense necessary? All the way to the ceremony, even along the Canale Grande? Should we spend that many soldi, that many ducats?” She tortured her husband with a dark gaze, one particular from a wife to an errant husband, but it held little of its power this day.

  “Now, cara.” Zeno used his most ingratiating tone as he slipped his wife’s hand over one of his thin, chiseled arms and that of his mother over the other. “Our profits have been larger than ever this year and today is one of the most important days for our people. If not today, when, eh?”

  “Sì, Viviana,” Marcella piped in. “It would be so nice for these old legs to rest while they can today. Per favore?”

  Viviana cocked her head indignantly at her mother-in-law. As strong and as hearty as Viviana herself, there was nothing elderly about this sixty-eight-year-old woman, especially by Venetian standards. Shorter and rounder perhaps, with gray hair and the light coloring of her son, Marcella was still a woman of vigorous constitution, one who found great pleasure in conspiring with Zeno.

  There was no hope for it; Viviana nodded her head in capitulation. “Very well, off we go. Let’s eat at every trattoria and shop all day while we’re at it.”

  “Sounds perfect, mi amore,” Zeno responded straight-faced to his wife’s sarcasm, a sheepish grin cracking the false veneer as his wife’s jaw dropped. “Come, come, mia famiglia, this way.”

  Zeno led the procession of women along the fondamenta, chest puffed up grandly like a rooster leading his hens, nodding to all the men staring at his bevy of beauties with a grin set askew by arrogance. They arrived at the small canal of the Rio dei Gesuiti, and mingled into the line of people waiting to catch a gondola.

  The winding waterways of Venice teemed with the long, narrow asymmetrical boats; close to ten thousand of them floated on the green liquid arteries of the city. Those privately owned, the many that belonged to the rich and noble, were distinctive with their bright colors and opulent cloth felzi, yet thousands more were for hire and it was but a momentary wait for the next available black boat.

  “Buongiorno, signore. Where may I take you and your beautiful family?” the dark-haired gondolier asked as he helped each Fiolario onto his craft with a firm, large hand. Oriana and Lia giggled at his touch, their young, hungry scrutiny devouring his sculpted muscles so perfectly displayed under his Egyptian blue, skin-tight jerkin and crimson hose.

  “All the way to the piazza, if you please,” Zeno called out with spirit and smiled playfully at his wife. He wielded his natural charm and merriment, enticing Viviana to catch the festive mood, as successfully as he had when first seducing her and winning her heart, enticing her away from her family to live the sequestered life with him on Murano. She was as enchanted now as then. With a small huff of surrender, Viviana relinquished and laughed along with her husband and Marcella as they took their seats on the cushioned bench closest to the gondolier.

  “All the way? Madonna mia, how wonderful,” their gondolier cried, bowing low over an offered leg. “I am Pietro and you will have the most wonderful ride of your life.”

  The beguiled Fiolarios applauded as Pietro set the oar into the forcola, the elaborately curved wooden oarlock, and began to drive the craft along.

  “A-oel,” he cried with a singsong cadence, announcing their departure and alerting the oarsmen on the nearby gondolas of their launch.

  The girls sat in front of their elders on their own pillowed row of seats, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the mass of people floating by on the canals and walking along the adjacent fondamenti. With trembling nostrils, Sophia inhaled the aromas of cooking food, blooming flowers, and the ever-present dung-like earthy odor of the canals. How different the city seemed today than most, when she ambled along these passageways with one companion or another, conducting business on behalf of the glassworks and her aging father, who had no son to send in his stead. Her sisters turned and twisted in their seats, thrilled by the metropolitan sights so infrequently glimpsed, straining to see all its attractions, including their handsome boatman. They sighed with girlish exhalations as Pietro began to sing, his sweet tenor serenading them, the dulcet tones joining in the chorus with those of the other gondoliers.

  As they turned off the smaller waterway and onto the Canalazzo, the modest and charming homes lining the jetty became large and magnificent palazzi. On their balconies and through their stained-glass windows, Sophia spied the sumptuously attired nobles in various stages of party preparations.

  Passing beneath the Ponte de Rialto, they circled back inland on smaller canals, their muscular gondolier crouching deep beneath the low footbridges that crossed the thin waterways. Like bright and garish blossoms, the courtesans festooned almost every bridge and many of the balconies throughout the city, their powdered breasts bulging from their scant bodices, their young skin hardened and lined by layers of rouge and paint. Upon the quaysides they streamed through the crowds, the tarnished jewels of the Republic’s obsession with pleasure.

  “You must hurry now,” Pietro urged as he brought his passengers to the dockside and helped them from his vehicle, accepting his fee from Zeno with a quick bow. “High Mass will begin soon.”

  “Grazie,” Zeno and Viviana called together, corralling their family, and stepping briskly away from the water’s edge.

  “Arrivederci, Pietro.” Oriana and Lia waved daintily over their shoulders.

  “Ciao, belle.” Pietro smiled at them with a devil-may-care smirk, and Sophia grinned behind a hand as her sisters giggled with glee.

  With the congested stream of people, the Fiolario family rushed into the stone-paved Piazza San Marco, the largest and most opulent open square in all of Venice. As the bells of the towering brick campanile began to peal, they surged forward with the jostling crowd toward the domed Basilica and its distinctive façade. An amalgamation of east and west design, its exterior encompassed capitals from Sicily, columns from Alexandria, and sculpture from Constantinople, festooned with marble pinnacles and crockets, all under the glory of huge golden domes that dominated the Venetian horizon. Squeezing tight against the throngs of worshippers, the family filtered through the massive Romanesque arching doorways and into the glowing interior, illuminated by thousands of candles whose light reflected off the gold mosaics and colored marble.

  Only a smattering of empty seats remained, and the girls surrendered them to their elders with respect. Standing in one of the many rows of people lining up along the back, Sophia strained t
o see the front of the church. People filled every space of the building, uniquely designed in a cross of four equal arms, as opposed to the more popular Latin style found in most churches. She bowed her head to give thanks, allowing the chanting of prayers and singing of hymns to engulf and fill her. The cloying scent of the incense, emanating from the tendrils of smoke rising from the swaying, clacking gold censers, did little to mask the musky and bitter stench of so many infrequently washed bodies.

  Sophia’s own whispered yet fervent prayers mingled with those of the hundreds of other parishioners. Her gratitude overwhelmed her, for the beauty of this day, the magnificence of her country and most of all, the love of her family. She felt a moment’s repentance, for choosing the life she had, for forsaking marriage and motherhood as both society and the church insisted was her duty. She squeezed her clenched hands together, feeling the slim, hard bones within them. God had given her the gift in these hands; surely he forgave her and loved her for using it.

  Sophia sent a special prayer to Saint Mark, he who gave his life to spread the word of Jesus and whose remains lay entombed below them. His body—smuggled out of the heathens’ land by Venetian sailors and hidden amidst a cache of pork, rendering it untouchable to the Muslims—came to these shores hundreds of years ago, and his capacity to ignite the people’s passion remained as powerful as the day he arrived. He was their patron and the source of their strength.

  The mass ended and cheerful voices joined rustling fabrics and the now restless and cramped congregation filled the aisles. Behind Doge Leonardo Donato, a tall, somber man and the Republic’s ninetieth ducal ruler, they emptied out into the already crowded piazza, where more celebrants, too many to fit into the Basilica, waited. Surrounded by black-robed senators and council members, bishops and priests, Doge Donato, sweating under full ducal regalia—a scarlet brocade robe, cape, and doge’s cap—strode past the Palazzo Ducale and into the smaller Piazzetta where they stopped between the two majestic marble columns.

  The twelfth-century stone projectiles—“acquisitions” from Constantinople—marked the aperture of the Molo, the waterfront—the majestic gateway—of the grand city. Atop one stood the winged lion of St. Mark while upon the other St. Theodore, the former patron of the Republic, battled a crocodile. These imposing monuments were two of Venice’s greatest attractions, yet Sophia refused to look up to the top of the long, bright stone pillars. As a frightened child, she had seen men hanging upside down from a gibbet strung between them, and the horrifying sight had forever blighted their beauty in her eyes.

  The Fiolario women slowed as they neared the shore, but Zeno urged them on.

  “No, not this year. Today we will not just watch. We will be a part of this celebration.”

  He smiled infectiously, urging them forward through the teeming masses to the ramp of a plumed and festooned barge. He dug in his pocket for the many golden coins to pay the family’s fare. Viviana opened her mouth to protest, snapping her jaw shut, offering a serene, if forced, smile in place of any harsh words.

  With a wave to the crowd packing the piazzetta and overflowing into the larger piazza, Doge Donato stepped through the mam-mouth arch formed by the columns to board the Bucintoro with his chosen special guests. Among the contingent were not only the most powerful senators and council members of the land, but also the visiting kings, queens, and princes that Oriana so longed to see.

  She grabbed Sophia’s arm. “Can you see any of them?”

  Both young women strained to see across the water near the rail of their garlanded craft and onto the ceremonial galley.

  Sophia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes as she looked off into the distance. “Sì, I see someone. Oh, he is very handsome, very slim, and muscular. What’s this? He’s stopped…he’s looking around for…for something.”

  “What?” Oriana popped with excitement. “Che cosa? What does he look for?”

  Sophia stood on tiptoe and craned her neck back and forth to see over and around the heads in front of them. “He looks…he looks…for you.”

  “Uffa!” Oriana slapped Sophia’s arm, annoyed but laughing at her sister’s mischievous smile.

  “Shh,” Sophia insisted with an indulgent sidelong grin. “The best and last part is coming. Wait until it’s over and we’ll find your prince for you.”

  Oriana quieted, chastised, but took her sister’s hand in hers as the ceremony began.

  Venice’s Festa della Sensa, Marriage to the Sea, had been celebrated for almost six hundred years. What began as a commemoration of the Serenissima’s naval prowess was now a tradition on Ascension Day to pay tribute to the sea that held their land in its loving embrace, a ceremony that paid homage to the power, prestige, and prosperity each brought to the other and their interdependence.

  All the members of the procession were aboard, the bells began to peal, a cannon exploded on shore, and the Bucintoro began to sail out into the glistening blue waters amidst the cheering. The burgundy and gold ducal galley, constructed in the renowned Arsenale, was a floating palace, rebuilt once every century. Its wood shimmered, polished to a glossy finish, its flags bright and flapping in the midday sun. Every now and again, the golden trim sparkled as if kissed by the sun. The gilded mythological creatures rose in stark relief along the bright red sides of the long slim vessel. Forty-two crimson oars, each eleven meters long and manned by four arsenaloti—the craftsmen of the Arsenale, one of the greatest industrial complexes in the world—propelled the flagship, named for the ancient mythological word meaning “big centaur,” out toward the port.

  The waters around them churned and the flotilla of boats of every shape and size including the barge carrying the Fiolarios, whirled around the Bucintoro, worker bees buzzing around the queen. Eagerly they followed it out to the Porto di Lido, where the deeper waters of the Adriatic waited, where the tip of the long curved sandbar ended. As the large boat stilled, the Bishop of Castello, the religious official who had presided over the ceremony since its inception, stood beside the Doge on the bow. Below them, adorning the prow, was the gilded wooden sculpture representing Venice dressed as Justice, with both a sword and scales.

  From the Fiolarios’ perch a few boats away, the distinct figures of the two men were clearly visible, the short one in a black robe, purple sash, skull cap, and beard, and the taller one, with his gold embroidered cape furling out in the wind and distinctive head-dress upon his skull. Never more than when seen in profile, the ducal cap cast a unique silhouette; rising from the flat top front of the head, the back rose majestically to peak in a small horn shape, the elongated flaps extending down to cover the Doge’s ears.

  Sophia and her family could see the Bishop raise his hands and form the sign of the cross, blessing the waters of the sea in peace and gratitude. His hand lowered, fumbled amidst the folds of his robes, and rose back up, the Blessed Ring now in his hands. As he turned to address the Doge, his words took wing on the wind. Mere mutated snippets of sound found the pilgrims on the shore, the melodious tones blending with the strains of madrigals performed by two groups of singers, one on each side of the towering columns. Every man, woman, and child in attendance knew the ancient words the Bishop intoned to Il Serenissimo on behalf of his people.

  “Receive this ring as a token of sovereignty over the sea that you and your successors will be everlasting.”

  Doge Donato stepped forward, accepted the token, and bowed in thanks. Gesturing to the crowd on the banks of the water, he held it high and his archetypically dour countenance broke into a grin.

  “We espouse thee, O Sea, as a sign of true and perpetual domination.” The Doge’s pledge carried across the blue and green waters to the boats and farther on, to the shore, and the sea of anxious captives.

  With a short swing of his long arm, he hurled the ring into the sea. For a moment it glittered against the bright azure sky, a reflection of the golden sun as bright as a star in the black heavens. It arced and fell into the waiting sea, the splash small yet reso
unding, sealing the marriage. The crowd roared, erupting into cheering jubilation as the small piece of jewelry splashed into the waters, to sink forever into its depths.

  The Fiolario family hugged and kissed each other and many of the crowd around them, strangers who were no longer unfamiliar as they shared this moment of renewal and blessing, cheering and crying as one. These Venetians, forced together by the physical confines of their land, were bonded spiritually, perhaps more than the inhabitants of any vast kingdom. The applause and adulation continued until La Maesta Nav, the ship of majesty, returned to shore, disposing of its passengers amidst the exultant crowd. Only when the Doge, the Bishop, the government officials and honored guests passed through the throng, embracing and shaking hands, did the horde begin to disperse.

  “Come.” Zeno gathered his women as they lit ashore and onto the Piazzetta. “Now to enjoy ourselves.”

  “It is so wonderful to see you, signore Fiolario.” Doge Donato shook Zeno’s hand with both of his large paw-like ones, his strong voice almost inaudible over the cacophony around them; music of all types, from all corners of the square, mingled with thousands of voices, strange and familiar languages blending into one stream of human sound. Bowing over their hands, brushing a kiss on those of Marcella and Viviana, the imposing ruler acknowledged each of the Fiolario women one at a time.

  It had been a day of wonder and delights, filled with all that the ostentatious celebration had to offer, the bountiful banquets, processions and performers, the jugglers, dancers and acrobats. Oriana and Lia had glimpsed a prince or two, mooned over their handsome faces and opulent dress, but in the end had been too shy to approach them. The sadness and turmoil of the past few days, though not forgotten, had been kept at bay, like water behind a temporary dam, but the Doge’s presence had loosened the flood gates once more. The powerful leader would not have deigned to give a moment’s thought to a family such as theirs if Zeno were not a prestigious member of the Arte dei Vetrai.