Her delivery made, Sophia made as if to leave; sidling a few steps away, her movements no more than a ruse. She leaned up against the back of an unused scagno, idly rubbing an oil-stained rag against its already clean surface. Her presence forgotten, with the uninterest bred by familiarity, the men took a few quick gulps of refreshment, then set back to their work. Ernesto concentrated on shaping the clear rods, Salvatore the painting, and Paolo the cooling. They labored in perfect unison, anticipating each other’s thoughts, linked to one another’s ways through years of working in close proximity, words of instruction mingling with random conversation.
“Do you need the stringer, Sal?” Paolo asked the man beside him.
With a small shake of his head, Salvatore refused the offered device, keeping his head bent to his work.
“Did you see her—Carina, I mean?” Paolo put the tool aside, and picked up another. “Were her breasts not the most beautiful you had ever seen? The skin, like silk, and the mounds, so firm and high.”
Salvatore gazed out at nothing in wonder for a moment, recalling the wondrous sight in his mind. “They were like something from my dreams.”
Sophia lowered her head and bit her smiling lips together, imprisoning her laughter. The men had forgotten her; their talk had turned to women as it so often did, especially among the young ones.
“Like juicy melons.” Paolo’s rapture transformed his plain face into euphoric beauty. “I longed for nothing more than to lap at their sweetness.”
“I have already tasted their nectar, many a time.”
The gloating call came from across the aisle. Salvatore and Paolo stared at the boastful Monte with bulging eyes and falling jaws.
“No? It cannot be!” they brayed together in protest.
“Certamente.” The blond and wiry young man set his pontello down and swaggered across the passageway. “It was a night of consuming bliss. For me, it was her ass, so tight, so…so…” Monte struggled for succinct words. He formed his hands into arcs and held them out in front of his pelvis, gesturing crudely with hands and hips. The calls and jeers rang out all around as the men unerringly pictured what had taken place.
Embarrassed warmth rose on Sophia’s cheeks and, though the men became almost comical with their exaggerated gestures and gibes, she no longer felt like laughing. Pangs of longing and curiosity plagued her, a desperation with no name. There had been men in Sophia’s life, boys really, and with them she had discovered lips and hands. Never had the fire these men now spoke of scorched her, and yet she knew a craving for it.
“When I had her, we were not alone.”
Stunned into silence by the unfathomable utterance of a scrawny youth, every man within hearing ceased his work.
“She and her friend left my skin so raw I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”
For a taut moment the bevy of men studied Octavio, young and skinny, still with pimples maligning his sweaty face. He appeared too immature, too inexperienced to even speak with a single woman, let alone lie with two.
“Liar!”
“Magari!”
“Ridiculous!”
The laughter and caterwauling burst out as the men dismissed the incredulous story and its teller with their raucous cries, throwing their hands dramatically up in the air. Despite her best efforts Sophia laughed aloud at such outrageousness, caught up in the swell of hilarity and comradery.
Ernesto spun in her direction, vigilant once more to her forgotten presence by the tinkling of her feminine laughter, and chastised her with an indulgent smile.
“You shouldn’t be listening to this.”
“And you are all obsessed with sex,” she teased.
“You wound us, Sophia.” Paolo added his to the other loud protests and guffaws, one hand to each cheek with feigned indignation. “It is not true.”
“Oh, no?”
Incredulous, Sophia raised an accusing finger in the men’s direction, stalked over to the annealer—the large cooling chamber—and threw open its doors. Inside stood three beautiful, brilliantly finished pieces…two perfect round globe vases beside one tall powerful shaft.
The stunned men gaped in silence, their objections stifled in the face of such obvious sexual symbols.
“Dio mio,” Salvatore hissed with incredulous urgency, “we are perverts!”
Sophia’s giggles joined the lusty male laughter. She closed the door upon the salacious items with a shake of her head as the men returned to their work.
“I know he saw me, in fact I’m quite sure he stared at me from the distance for the rest of the day.”
Oriana looked down her long straight nose at Lia as they set the table, their girlish talk punctuated by the clomp and clatter of plates and cutlery on the long, intricately carved oak board. Enticing aromas of boiling sauce and cooking meat wafted in from the next room.
“You live in a dream world, Oriana,” Lia scoffed, moving around her sister with barely an inch to spare. “The young Hapsburg prince could never have seen you among all those people. You never spoke a single word to him, though you said you would.”
“You’re wrong, I know you are.” Oriana threw down all the utensils still in her hand, the grating clatter shrieking through the air, and stomped her wooden-heeled shoe against the stone floor, the dissonance reverberating throughout the large house.
“Oh, no, I’m not. You’re a lunatic.” Lia, smaller and younger, yet not easily intimidated, stepped closer to her angry sister, jutting out her chin in equal defiance.
“What’s going on here?” Viviana stormed through the door that led from the cucina into the dining room, insinuating herself between her arguing girls as she was so often forced to do.
“She said the prince was staring at her.”
“He was!”
“See, roba da matti.” Lia tilted her head back and forth, crossed her eyes, and twirled a forefinger beside her temple.
“Fesso!” Oriana tried to lunge past her mother, aiming at her sister with balled fists.
“Stai zitto!” Viviana barked, shoving the girls apart, one hand on each of their firm bellies. “Be quiet, right now or you will never see another prince as long as you live. Your father will be here any moment for a nice quiet dinner and I will not have him besieged by this…this nonsense after a long day of work.”
Oriana’s eyes darkened as they narrowed at Lia, her tight mouth forming a thin line upon her reddened face. Lia stuck out her tongue. Grudgingly they separated.
At once, every door leading into the room opened; from the kitchen Marcella glided in, humming a merry tune, carrying a large, brightly painted ceramic bowl overflowing with steaming food. Through the outside door, Sophia made her way in, followed by her father and two young men, workers from the factory. Oriana and Lia began to snipe again. Zeno laughed and joked with his two guests. The house overflowed with people and noise like a pot set too long to boil.
“Buonasera, Mamma.” Sophia pecked a kiss on her mother’s cheek and placed another on the top of Marcella’s head.
“Ignacio and Vito’s mamma is away, so we are feeding them tonight, all right?” Zeno asked, greeting his wife with his own kiss, though why he posed the question when he had already brought the boys with him, Viviana did not know. It was not the first time the family fed some of its workers; it would not be the last.
“So much for a quiet dinner,” she grumbled.
“Che?” Sophia turned back to her mother with a squeeze upon the older woman’s shoulder.
“Nothing, Sophia, no more than a bit of my own nonsense. Two more chairs and settings, Oriana,” Viviana said. “Sit. Eat. Everyone mangia.”
Noise flourished as the food was served. Chairs scraped the stone floor, and the family sat as they talked, argued, and laughed. Malvasia flowed from basket-covered decanters as Viviana and Marcella flitted back and forth from table to kitchen, heaping the slab with plate after plate of food. They served leg of mutton with gnocchi, roasted chicken stuffed with artichoke hearts a
nd red peppers, hard-boiled eggs and crabmeat soaking in a steamy bowl of freshly churned butter. In the smaller ceramic bowls, there came sarde in saor—sardines marinated in sour sauce—olives drenched in spiced oil, and fresh ciabatta baked that afternoon.
The Fiolario household employed a small retinue of servants, a few loyal and hardworking villagers to do the cleaning and the gardening, not a full household like so many of the other Murano glass-making families. One middle-aged couple lived with them, assisting with the never-ending chores of a household and business. Santino and Rozalia had been with them for many years, since their own marriage more than two decades ago, dedicated to the family that treated them as their own. The family could afford more domestics if they chose—La Spada was one of the most successful, most affluent glassworks in all of Murano, earning more than enough to bear the cost of a whole contingent of servants, but Viviana preferred to do some things herself. The women of the house prepared the meals, especially the pranzo—the evening’s repast—with great care and expertise. With the abundant feast set before them, and a quick word of gratitude offered to God, the eating began in earnest.
Sophia’s stomach gurgled; the tantalizing aromas of the beautifully presented meal awakened an appetite, up till now ignored. She reached out to the heaped and bulging platters strewn before her.
“Pass me the mutton, Sophia, per favore?” Vito asked.
Sitting to her father’s right, with Vito and his brother to her right, Sophia dutifully lifted the serving dish on her left and passed it.
“May I have the bread, Sophi?” This from Ignacio, and Sophia fulfilled his request with equal grace, believing attention to her own repast was at hand. She was mistaken.
Her hands entered a never-ending dance, a whirlwind of movement, tasting a few scant bites of her own meal as she passed the laden trenchers back and forth, filling the constant requests of the two hungry young men.
Sophia rolled her eyes heavenward, out of amusement rather than annoyance, and set herself merrily to the task. She begrudged them nothing, not their place at her family’s table, not the food they consumed. With these youthful companions, she felt entirely comfortable and relaxed, free of worry or care about what she did or what she said. She considered them colleagues, compatriots in the love of the glass. Never when among them did she feel the anxiety or shyness that so often plagued her with others outside the family.
Across the food-covered expanse, Sophia discerned the glint of satisfaction on her mother’s and grandmother’s faces as their guests devoured their culinary creations. She recognized it, the smiles bordering on the smug, the contentment and fulfillment of a task accomplished with aplomb. She knew it herself, every time someone marveled at one of her masterpieces or purchased one for great sums of money. Deriving the same gratification from concocting a meal, no matter how delicious, seemed unfeasible to Sophia.
By the time the sweet crumbs of dessert lay scattered across the soiled cream tablecloth, more than an hour had passed and the frenzied pace of hungry eating had subsided to a more sedate tempo of sated relaxation and enjoyment. Zeno shared his amaretto and Sophia sipped the deep amber liquid, relishing the almond-flavored cordial as it slithered down her throat in a warming stream. Ignacio and Vito nibbled on the few cannoli left on the scallop-edged platter, and Lia seemed unable to stop popping struffoli, the small fried dough balls slathered in honey, into her mouth with rhythmic repetition.
The two boys were a lively addition to the spirited family discussions; the conversation and laughter, as replete as the feast, showed no sign of abatement. The long shadows of dusk stretched and groped for the horizon until night’s dusky fingers mingled amongst them and Zeno lit the sweet wax candles above and around them. The diligent Viviana and Marcella lingered over their espressos, allowing Santino and Rozalia to come in and relieve them of the tedious and unglamorous cleaning up.
“No, it was you,” Vito roared with laughter, pointing an accusing finger that shook with his every cackle at his brother. “I distinctly remember it was you who got his head stuck in the railing when you tried to see down our cousin’s gown from the second floor.”
“No, no, you’re wrong,” Ignacio argued, laughing uproariously, as did they all, his defense too comically offered to be taken with any serious regard.
“It sounds like so—”
A discordant bang, bang, bang, burst upon the front door, choking off Zeno’s chortled words. The harsh sound at such an inappropriate time silenced them with a dampening stroke. It was rare for Venetians to call on each other during pranzo, and, unless invited out, most were home with their own families.
“I’ll get it.” Santino set a cumbersome pile of dirty dishes back on the table and started forward.
“No, I will.” Zeno rose, crossing through the dining room and into the front sitting room. He opened only one of the large double wooden doors that gave out onto a small fondamenta and the Rio dei Vetrai canal, and peered out into the waiting gloom.
The dimly-lit figure standing in the threshold was imperceptible to the others waiting apprehensively in the dining room and fairly inaudible save for a smattering of mumbled words. Within seconds, the door closed and Zeno returned, shuffling toward them, head down, consideration intent upon a small parchment unrolled in his hands. His pale eyes flicked back and forth then rose up, brows bunched incredulous upon his age-spotted forehead. Looking down, he read again. Without a word, he raised his arm, extending the letter toward his wife.
Viviana stood up fast, her chair flinging out behind her with a shriek that rent the pregnant air, and grasped at the missive. As she read the message, one hand rose up with a slow hesitant motion to cover her slack-jawed mouth. Her stricken gaze found her husband’s and held. The bubble of straining, silent apprehension drew near to bursting; it crackled unanswered in the air, until Viviana said one word.
“Sophia.”
Sophia blanched, pointing one trembling index finger at her own chest in stunned question. Oriana shot her sister a narrow-eyed stare, ticking her head toward their parents. Sophia stood and slogged toward them, her steps slow and plodding, her trepidation transparent on a visage distorted with ill-disguised fear. She took the vellum from her mother’s hand. The invitation was for two nights hence, to dine at the home of the noble da Fuligna family, a summons extended to Viviana, Zeno, and Sophia alone.
Sophia stared with bulge-eyed, blatant fear at her father and mother.
“But what is this? What does it mean?”
Zeno’s thin mouth sunk at the corners.
Viviana stared at her daughter. “You have been chosen.”
“Chosen?” Sophia’s shoulders rose high in bewilderment, her voice terse with annoyed uncertainty. “Chosen for what?”
Viviana turned again to her brooding husband, seeking a strength neither felt.
“Marriage.”
“Marriage?” Sophia hissed the word like a curse upon her tongue, as if she spoke of hell itself, her olive skin bursting with red splotches of anger. “My marriage? To whom?”
“It must be the oldest, Pasquale, I think his name is,” Viviana ruminated. She laid one hand gently upon Sophia’s back, rubbing small circles with comforting repetition. “It must be. The da Fulignas are a poor family. Noble, but poor. It must be the oldest who is allowed to marry, who must marry to infuse the family with some wealth and some heirs.”
The quiet in the once laughter-filled home became unearthly, disturbing in its foreboding. Sophia beseeched her family in silence; with outstretched hands and a frightened expression, she pleaded for someone to tell her it was all a mistake. Zeno stood with hands gripping the back of a tall armchair, his knuckles white under the stretched skin. His mouth splayed but no words, not a sound, came out.
Oriana rose, tip-toeing across the room to stand by mother and sister.
“Will I still be able to marry?” Her voice quivered with pending tears.
Sophia whirled, sharp words poised on the tip of her ton
gue like a drawn sword in her hand, words that would lash out with the power of her anger and frustration. How could her sister be so self-centered? Oriana’s face twisted with grief, tears welled in her eyes, and her lips trembled. A wave of pity and remorse washed over Sophia and she rubbed at her face as if to wash the ill-will from her thoughts.
On the islands, as through most of the Republic, the marriage portion settled on a daughter was exorbitant, ten thousand ducats or more, and few families could afford to make such a settlement for more than one of their female offspring. For others the convent awaited. The conventual dowry was almost as dear as that for marriage, yet its toll on women was much harsher. The price would be a great deal more egregious to Sophia’s sister. For Oriana, marriage was an idolized ideal of almost religious proportion. To not be married would be to shatter her, heart and soul.
“Shh, dearest, hush.” Viviana wrapped her other arm around the small trembling shoulders. “All our daughters will marry, have no fear. But perhaps it would be wise to choose a husband, before one is chosen for you.”
Zeno and Sophia averted their gaze under the force of Viviana’s subtle reprimand. They shared culpability in bringing them to this moment. Sophia had refused more than one fine proposal, offers from the sons of other Murano families. But she had rejected each and every one. True, she hadn’t loved any of them, but love—or its lack—had not been her reason for refusal. Sophia had no desire to give up the life she led, to leave her own family—or the glass—to become someone’s wife. Zeno’s guilt lay in letting her.
It was all too much to endure. Sophia ran, rushing out the back door, down the narrow flight of steps, and into the cobbled courtyard. She screeched to a halt under the star-laden sky, stopping short a few inches from the wellhead in the center of the compound, spinning around step by step, looking at the home she loved so dearly.
Opposite the house lay the small family garden where the sprouts of fresh vegetables were just beginning to peek out of the spring-warmed earth. On each side, buildings flanked the quadrangle; on the left, the columns and arches of La Spada; on the right, the back of yet another glass-making factory, that belonging to the Catani family. In the center of the courtyard, a cisterna, capped by carved marble. Every wonderful memory in her mind centered on this world, these people. She would have to leave it all, them, this magical place that was Murano. She could not bear the thought.
The Secret of the Glass Page 5