The Secret of the Glass

by Morin, Donna Russo

  “I am well, quite well, signore, which must mean my father is displeased.”

  Zeno laughed. “So not much has changed since last we met?”

  “Nothing at all.” Sagredo’s laughter joined that of the older man.

  “Good, good.” Zeno nodded. “You remember my daughter, Sophia?”

  “Sophia, my dear, a pleasure to see you again,” Sagredo greeted the self-possessed young woman who stood behind her father with genuine felicity. So similar in physical appearance to her sister, yet she emitted an aura of calm and strong self-awareness. She launched no predatory attack and he needed no defenses in return.

  “Signore Sagredo.” Sophia gave a small, dignified obeisance.

  From beneath her thick, sooty lashes, she pondered the chiseled features of this young man whom she had not seen in almost a year. His beauty was undeniable, the smoky dark eyes, carved cheekbones, and full lips. He stirred the woman in her, the yearnings she so often dampened and she beat them back once more, the price for his particular beauty far too costly.

  Sophia had heard all the stories of his wild, womanizing behavior and had no desire to become part of it. Still, his presence here had made her father happy, had sparked a life and awareness in Zeno she had not seen in many a day, and she felt grateful for it, a gratitude that warmed her greeting.

  “We are so pleased by your visit today. It has been too long.”

  “Sì, Sophia, it has,” Sagredo answered. “But it is not just the pleasure of your family’s company which finds me here. I come on important business.”

  His arms opened wide, one hand gestured to Zeno and Sophia, the other to his guest.

  “Signore Fiolario, Sophia, may I present my dear friend, professore Galileo.”

  Zeno jumped to his feet, his stool thrown back by his swift and vigorous motion.

  “Galileo?”

  “Sì, signore.” Galileo stepped forward, bowed with reverence, and took the glassmaker’s hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “No, professore, the honor is all mine.” Zeno reciprocated the obeisant gesture, pumping the offered hand, eyes wide in amazement.

  Sophia studied the new acquaintance with a keen eye. The short cap of graying hair, the long beard, the straight, almost petite upturned nose atop a diminutive and plump physique, but she found no familiarity in any of them.

  “Signorina.” Galileo turned as if having felt her scrutiny. “Come stai?”

  “Bene, signore,” Sophia bobbed a curtsy.

  “This is the Galileo, Phie,” Zeno explained to his daughter, his attention lingering with indisputable awe upon his visitor. “The scientist I have spoken of so often. Sir, your study on isochronisms was miraculous. I have actually used its theories in my own work.”

  Comprehension dawned on Sophia. Galileo’s studies of the phenomenon her father spoke of, that a swinging pendulum’s arc might change in distance but the time duration remained the same, was inspired by studying the movement of a chandelier, one made in Venice. Zeno revered this man as he did few others.

  “You honor me, signore,” Galileo replied.

  Zeno said nothing, but continued to gape at the scientist in wide-eyed wonder.

  “You have come on business, signore?” Sophia placed a hand lightly upon Zeno’s arm.

  “Yes, yes, we have.” Galileo took a packet of folded parchment from his waistcoat pocket and gestured toward the table. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Zeno raised a hand in happy acquiescence.

  Galileo spread the drawings out, copies of those he had created in the darkness of night when the enlightenment had found him, smoothing the folds and crinkles of the papers with a loving hand. Many of the craftsmen working nearby craned their necks to see. The rhythmic noise of the factory—the hissing of hot glass in water, the clanging of metal tools against steel tables—subsided as some tried to listen in. More than a few had recognized the name of the visitor, and it spread through the room on excited whispers, like sparks in a field of dried leaves.

  “I am working on a new device, one that will allow the human eye to see far beyond its normal capabilities.”

  Zeno and Sophia studied the diagrams before them, heads bent over the complex diagrams, unable to visualize Galileo’s intention at first, to recognize the theory as a concrete possibility.

  “The eye is a device, is it not, the mechanism for the human body to see with. This is but an improvement on God’s design.” Galileo pointed to a particular drawing. “See, it’s shaped just like the eye.”

  Understanding dawned in Sophia’s mind. She looked up at the professore, her face alight with the thrill of discovery. It was genius, pure genius. Gratitude surged through her and she paid a silent homage to God for allowing her to see such a thing. Sophia turned to her father, to share this moment of revelation and innovation with him and her smile hardened on her face like mud drying in the sun.

  Zeno no longer studied the drawings, but stared hypnotically at the professor, as if he studied a bird floating in the sky and wondered how it could be. Incomprehension anointed his empty features. Sophia swallowed through a tight, closing throat, and snuck a glance through the sides of her eyes at their visitors. These were educated, intuitive men; they could not be allowed to see her father in such a state. Sophia grabbed Zeno’s forearm and pulled him closer to her side. As she hoped, the gesture drew his vacant attention in her direction.

  “This part here, signore,” Sophia pointed down at the crescent-shaped drawings, distracting attention away from her father, “you wish us to make those of our glass?”

  “Exactly, young lady, exactly.” Galileo exclaimed, enthused by her insight. “My only quandary at this point is the degree of curvature needed to achieve the maximum, focused vision possible. That is why I’m asking for them in a few different degrees. It is possible, yes?”

  “You are professore Galileo?” Zeno’s nonsensical question, his flummoxed tone, clanged like the offbeat note of a drum.

  Sagredo spun round as if struck and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. One look at the face of his father’s old friend, blank-eyed and slack-jawed, a pale reflection of its former self, and he comprehended the situation with a certainty. Fear gripped Sophia at the disturbed perception in the young man’s expression. She laid a hand upon his forearm.

  “It is very possible,” she answered Galileo, imploring Sagredo with an unspoken request. She had no choice but to trust him and hope. “We employ some of the most talented and educated glassmakers in all the land. We will put our very best on the job. We need only to be left as we are, and we will persevere.”

  Sophia felt Sagredo’s scouring scrutiny upon her face as he mulled her words. His quick, firm nod secured his support.

  “Figata!” Galileo exclaimed, too gleeful to realize he now conducted business with the master’s daughter. “Wonderful. How long, do you think?”

  “No more than three or four days,” Sophia assured him, her hands curled as if the rod were already within her grasp, her fingers rolling, anticipating the thrill that would course through her as she created such thought-provoking, ingenious pieces, knowing she would be at work on them this very night. “I will deliver them myself upon completion.”

  “Grazie, mille grazie.” Galileo clasped his hands before him like a delighted child then offered a hand to Zeno. “I am so very grateful, signore.”

  He shook Zeno’s hand, the glassmaker’s appendage limp and waggling under the forceful gesture, and offered a humble bow to Sophia.

  “Signorina.”

  “Buongiorno, signore.” Sophia curtsied.

  “I will have my father visit soon, old friend.” Sagredo took Zeno’s hand, and stared into the dear face with sad perplexity.

  “That would be so very nice,” Sophia answered for her father and dipped her knees once more. She rose and their gaze met.

  Sagredo bowed over her hand, leaned close to Sophia’s ear, and spoke in a hushed whisper. “I am at your service
, Sophia, and that of your family.”

  Sophia accepted his pledge with a tilted bow of her head, sure of his loyalty and his silence.

  The deferential, hushed stillness remaining in the wake of the family friend and the scientist shattered as the door closed behind them, as the excited glassworkers twittered at once of the auspicious visit. As the hubbub percolated around her, Sophia stared at the closed wooden edifice. Elation and fear mingled in her gut and chilled her skin. With a hand that seemed to belong to someone else, she swept away the loose strands of wavy hair that stuck to her sweat-dampened forehead.

  “Look at this,” a man called out from her right, having sidled up to peek around her at the plans.

  The men rushed forward, jostling her aside, forcing her out of her mind and back to this room. Their exclamations of wonder filled the vast chamber, echoing against the solid stone walls.

  Sophia smiled at their wonder and astonishment as an indulgent mother would smile at an exuberant child. She allowed them a few minutes more of play, then leaned in close to her papà’s ear.

  “The men need to return to work now,” she whispered.

  Zeno answered with a wobbling nod.

  “To work, to work,” he called, the marionette of his daughter’s intent, and the artisans grudgingly retreated and returned to their stations. Her father returned to his stool.

  These days he sat upon it for hours, watching as the men worked, and again through the night while Sophia did. His cognizance flitted in and out like the hummingbird as it fed off the flower, quick to appear and just as quick to vanish. There was little Sophia could do to help him while the men filled the fabbrica, to disguise his growing strangeness to these people who knew him intimately. She whispered in his ear when his own fragile mind could not find answers to questions posed, appointed foremen from among the other masters to oversee the day’s work. But today, like many days, the burden she carried, the weight of her many secrets, hung heavily upon her and she longed for escape.

  Zeno sat quietly, the momentous visitors forgotten; he appeared at peace.

  “I’ll be right back, father.” Sophia patted his hand, heading expectantly for the door, her pace quickening as the fresh air and sunlight drew closer, as the promise of a stolen moment or two enticed her. She stepped out into the courtyard, leaned against the warm stone beside the door, and released herself to the serenity of her surroundings. The cobblestone terrace was uninhabited save for the birds and insects that also called it home, their tweeting and buzzing drowning out the niggling thoughts so loud in her mind. Sophia raised her face to the beckoning sun, allowed its warmth to wash over and penetrate her.

  Her mind quieted, her thoughts wandered on the breeze and minutes flew by. When she opened her eyes, the brightness stayed within her and the whole world appeared awash with radiance. She knew not if she had dozed or just escaped into her being, but the calmness of these moments had fed her spirit regardless. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and opened the door to the factory, ready to return to her duty.

  “No, Zeno, no!”

  The scream pulverized any peace she’d attained, any serenity she’d imagined was hers. She rushed through the portal and ran down the stairs. Fear blinded her, for she couldn’t find her father, couldn’t see what caused such a shriek.

  There, there he was. He stood at a furnace aperture, its door open wide like the mouth of a monster intent on devouring him, his shaking hand reached up and toward it.

  Sophia ran, arms outstretched, lunging for her father’s arm. Her force launched her toward him. Their bodies collided and flew in the air. They landed on the hard stone floor with an audible pounding of bone and flesh, both father and daughter grunting in pain. Sophia’s eyelids fluttered against the onslaught of stars bursting in her vision. She heard the groans, knew only that one was her father’s, and flung herself up.

  “Sophia! Zeno! Dio Mio!”

  The cries rang out around them.

  A hand thrust against her shoulder.

  “Don’t get up.”

  Sophia recognized Ernesto’s voice, but threw its warning and his hand away, twisting to see her father.

  Zeno lay on the floor, rocking side to side across his spine, moan mingled with incoherent babble.

  “Please, Ernesto.” Sophia clung to the arm of the man standing above her. “Get him out of here.”

  Ernesto gave a curt but assuring nod. “You two,” he barked, pointing at two of the youngest men. “Lift him; take him to his bed.”

  Sophia jumped up, again her head swam. She shook it fiercely as the boys gathered her father in their strong arms and started away. She had no time or patience for any malaise of her own, and followed fast on their heels.

  “If you do not hold still, I will not be able to clean the blood from your hair.”

  Nonna’s voice was stern in her ear. Her grandmother stood behind her, applying a cool damp cloth to Sophia’s torn scalp. Nonna spoke with austere command, but Sophia heard the quiver in the voice, felt the tremor in her hand.

  “It is clumped and dried, like a paste.”

  Sophia had refused any aid, refused to leave her father’s side as he lay, still dazed, in his bed, until the physician had come. Only when the bent and wizened healing man entered the room, did Sophia remove herself below stairs to allow her grandmother’s ministrations.

  “Sophia.”

  Her mother’s call filtered down from above. The strain of fear hummed through it, like the screech as a violinist broke a string.

  She jumped up from the chair, pushed away her grandmother’s hand, and flew to the stairs. On the first step, she stopped abruptly.

  “Stay here, Nonna.”

  Marcella’s tawny skin appeared ashen and wrinkled, old in a way Sophia had never seen her before. She nodded silently, unable to speak through trembling lips.

  Sophia ran up the stairs, down the narrow, dark wood paneled hall, halting at the threshold to her parents’ room. Her father lay in bed, inert and silent under the periwinkle and mustard quilt. For one devastating, afflictive moment, Sophia thought him dead, until she saw his chest rise with a shallow breath. She sought her mother’s face, but found no succor there, only more to fear in the decimated countenance.

  “Please, signore Fucini,” Viviana asked the tall man, “please tell my daughter what you have just explained to me.”

  Shrouded in his birdlike mask and black, all-covering cloak, the uniform of every physician since the age of the Black Death a few decades ago, the dottore resembled a nightmare caricature of the grim reaper. Sophia wanted nothing more than to jam her hands over her ears, to block out any words this harbinger of ill will had to say, but her need to know, her fear of that not known, forced her to look his way.

  “Your father…” the deep voice behind the mask began, faltered, and began again. “It is the disease of the brain. It is the dementia.”

  “What?” Her shock forced the question, not lack of hearing.

  “His brain is withering, dying. Where the brain goes, the body must follow.”

  Sophia heard the regret in his voice but it did little to dispel the certainty of his diagnosis. She couldn’t breathe. Her glare darted from physician to mother and back again.

  “How long?”

  “Oh, it could be months, maybe even years. There will be times, as much as days perhaps, when you cannot tell he is diseased at all. Then there will be others when he will be like a stranger to you all.”

  Sophia seized upon her mother, like any child needing assurance, something to hold onto, no matter how tenuous.

  “Is there nothing that can be done? Nothing we can do?”

  Signore Fucini shook his head as he gathered his tools and made for the door. He paused, placing an age-spotted hand upon Sophia’s shoulder. She shuddered from the touch, no matter how comforting its intent.

  “During his good days, you should treat him as normal as possible. On the bad…” his voice trailed away, “…just try to kee
p him comfortable.”

  Sophia stared, dumbstruck, at the hazel eyes she glimpsed through the holes in the crude mask.

  “Please see the signore to the door, Sophia.”

  Sophia spun back, astonished at Viviana’s calm, until she saw the tears that pooled in her mother’s sunken and soot-rimmed eyes, and suddenly Sophia longed to escape the presence of their desolation. Viviana needed to stay with her husband, and her grief.

  “Sì, Mamma.”

  Closing the door softly behind her, Sophia led the surgeon down the stairs, past her grandmother sitting in soundless tears of her own, and to the portal. She opened the door, then looked down into her own empty, open hands.

  “I’m sorry, signore, I have no money…I don’t know where…”

  “Don’t worry about it, child. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your Papà. No need to concern ourselves with that right now.”

  Sophia bobbed her head in gratitude, retreating from the door and the quiet fondamenta.

  “Signorina, mi scusi?”

  “Sì?” Sophia leaned back out the not yet closed door.

  The voice beckoned from out of the darkness accompanied by the clack of running footsteps. The squire stepped into the light cast by the torch by the door, his young man’s features distorted in the pale illumination. Sophia accepted the papers he held out toward her with eerie silence and a nod of thanks.

  She fastened the door, the portal to her mind inching shut. She recognized the handwriting upon the tawny parchment and wanted no part of it. Breaking the eggplant-colored wax seal on the thick vellum with trembling hands, she read the first few words and stopped, dropping her hand holding the missive to her side.

  Oriana and Lia stood beside her grandmother, their frightened scrutiny heavy upon her.

  “Who was that, Sophia?” Oriana asked.

  Sophia thrust the thick stack of papers at her sister, crossing to stand at the open back door, breathing heavily upon the cool night air. Oriana grasped at them, the crinkle of parchment loud as she flipped the pages.