They married in haste and decided to call the baby Corrado if it was a boy and Leonora if it was a girl, after Bruno's parents. As they lay in bed with the waters of the canal casting an undulating crystal mesh onto the ceiling, Bruno told her of his ancestor, the famous maestro of glassblowers, Corrado Manin, known as Corradino. Bruno told Elinor that Corradino was the best glass-maker in the world, and gave her a glass heart made by the maestro's own hand. It was all incredibly romantic. They were happy. Elinor made the heart reflect the light on to the ceiling, while Bruno lay with his hand on her belly. Here inside her, thought Elinor, was that fire, that continuity, that eternal flame of the Venetian genome. But the feeling faded as the modern world broke into theirs. Elinor's parents, not surprisingly, felt none of the respect for Bruno's profession that the Venetians feel for their boatmen. Nor were they impressed by his refusal to leave Venice and move to London.
For Elinor too, this was a shock. Her reverie ended abruptly, she was back in London in the seventies with a small daughter, and a promise from Bruno to write and visit. Baby Leonora spent her first months with her grandparents or at the University creche. When Bruno did not write Elinor was hurt but not surprised. Her pride stopped her from getting in touch with him. She made a gesture of retaliation by anglicizing her daughter's name to Nora. She began to appreciate feminist ideas and spent a great deal of time at single mother's groups rubbishing Bruno and men in general. At the Christmas of Nora's first year, Elinor received a Christmas card from an Italian friend from Ca' Foscari. Dottore Padovani had been a colleague in her department, a middle-aged man of intelligence and biting humour, not one given to patronage or sympathy. But Elinor detected a note of sympathy in his Christmas greetings. She rang as soon as the Christmas vacation was over to demand why he thought that just because a woman was a single parent she deserved to be pitied. He told her gently that Bruno had died of a heart attack not long after she had left - he assumed that she had heard. Bruno had died at work, and Elinor pictured him as she had first seen him, but now clutching his chest and pitching forward into the canal, the city claiming its own. The fire was out. For Elinor her love affair with Venice was over. She continued in her studies but moved her sphere of interest south to Florence, and in the Botticellis and Giottos felt safe that she would not keep seeing Bruno's face.
Nora grew up amongst women. Her mother and grandmother, the women of Elinor's discussion groups; they were her family. She grew up to be taught to develop her own mind and her creativity. She was perpetually warned of the ways of men. Nora was sent to an all-girl school in Islington and showed an aptitude for arts. She was encouraged in her sculpture by Elinor who had dreams of her daughter following in the footsteps of Michelangelo. But Elinor had reckoned without the workings of fate and the call of Nora's ancestors.
For whilst studying sculpture and ceramics at Wimbledon School of Art Nora met a visiting tutor who had her own glass foundry in Snowdonia. Gaenor Davis was in her sixties and made glass objets to sell in London, and she encouraged Nora's interest in glass, and the blower's art. Nora's fascination for the medium grew with the amberrose bubbles of glass that she blew and her expertise developed during a summer month spent at Gaenor's foundry. With the fanciful, pretentious nature of the naive student she saw her own self in the glass. This strange material was at once liquid and solid, and had moods and a finite nature, a narrow window in which she would allow herself to be malleable before her nature cooled and her designs were set, until the heat freed her again. Elinor, watching her daughter's specialism become apparent, began to have the uneasy feeling that that continuity, that enduring genome that she had identified in Venice, would not be so easily dismissed and was rising to the surface in her daughter.
But Nora had distractions - she was discovering men. Having been largely ignorant of the male sex for the whole of her childhood and adolescence, she found that she adored them. None of her mother's bitterness had passed to her - she surrounded herself with male friends and cheerfully slept with most of them. After three years of sex and sculpture Nora embarked on a Masters degree in ceramics and glass at Central St Martin's and there began to tire of artistic men.They seemed to her without direction, without conviction, without responsibility. She was ripe for a man like Stephen Carey, and when they met in a Charing Cross bar, her attraction was immediate.
He came from not the arts but the sciences - he was doctor. He wore a suit. He had a high-powered, well paid job at Charing Cross Hospital. He was handsome, but in a clean-shaven way - no stubble, no ironic seventies t-shirts, no skater clothes. Their courtship was accelerated by similar feeling on Stephen's side - here was a beautiful, freethinking, artistic girl dressed in a slightly funky fashion, charming him with a world he knew nothing of.
When Nora brought Stephen home to Islington Elinor sighed inwardly. She liked Stephen - with his old-world manners and Cambridge education - but could see what was happening. In her women' group her friends agreed. Nora was seeking out her father, but what could Elinor do?
Elinor gave her daughter the glass heart that Bruno had given her. She told Nora what she knew of her father's family, of the famous Corradino Manin, in an attempt to give her daughter a sense of paternal identity. But at that time Nora was no more than momentarily interested - her heart was full of Stephen. Nora finished her Masters and was offered a teaching post, Stephen got a surgical residency at the Royal Free, and there was nothing left to do but get married. They did so in a solid conventional fashion in Norfolk, with Stephen's wealthy family running the day. Elinor sat through the ceremony in her new hat and sighed again.
The couple went to Florence for their honeymoon at Elinor's suggestion. Nora was enchanted by Italy, Stephen less so.
Perhaps I should have sensed something wasn't right, even then.
She now remembered that Stephen detested the traffic and tourism of Florence. He resented her speaking to the locals in her hard-learnt but fluent Italian. It was as if he resented her heritage - felt threatened. In the Uffizi he himself braided her hair again after his brief, uncharacteristic moment of romance in front of the Botticelli. He said that her blondeness attracted too much unwanted attention in the street. Yet even with her hair bound she collected admiring glances from the immaculately dressed young men who hunted in designer-suited packs of five or ten, raising their sunglasses and whistling.
It was Stephen, too, who had resisted her suggestion to call herself Leonora again - too fancy, he said, too Mills and Boon. She had kept the name Manin for her work, as she exhibited her glassware in a small way in some London Galleries. Her chequebook and cashcards, however, said Carey.
Nora wondered if Stephen had only accepted Nora Manin because it sounded as if it could be English. Few people identified Manin as an Italian name, with no giveaway vowel at the end.
Is it because Stephen resented my `Italian-ness' that I am anxious to embrace it so wholeheartedly, now he is gone?
Nora turned from the luggage and searched in her makeup bag for her talisman. Among the mascara wands and bright palettes of colour she found what she was looking for. She held the glass heart in her hand, marvelling at its iridescence. It seemed to capture the light of the bathroom's fluorescent tube and hold it within itself. She threaded a blue hair ribbon through the hole in its crease and tied it round her neck. Over the last horrible months it had become her rosary, her touchstone for all the hopes of the future. She would hold it tight as she cried at those 4am wakings and tell herself if she could only get to Venice, everything would be alright.
The second part of her plan she did not want to think about yet - she had told no-one, and could barely even say it to herself as it sounded such a ridiculous, fanciful notion. `I am going to Venice to work as a glassblower. It is my birthright' She spoke to her reflection, aloud, clearly and defiantly. She heard the words, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the small hours, and cringed. But in determination, she clasped the heart tighter and looked again at her reflection. She thought she look
ed a little more courageous and felt cheered.
CHAPTER 3
Corradino's Heart
There were letters cut into the stone.
The words on the plaque which adorned the Orphanage of the Pieta were thrown into sharp relief by the midday sun. Corradino's fingers scored the grooves of the inscription. He knew well what it said;
`Fulmine it Signor Iddio maledetione e scomuniche ... May the Lord God strike with curses and excommunications all those who send or permit their sons and daughters - whether legitimate or natural - to be sent to this hospital of the Pieta, having the means and ability to bring them up.
Did you read these words, Nunzio dei Vescovi, you old bastard? Seven years ago to this day, when you abandoned your only grandchild here? Did you feel the guilt pressing on your heart? Did you look over your shoulder in fear of the Lord God and the Pope as you slunk home to your palazzo and your coffers of gold?
Corradino looked down at the worn step and pictured the newborn girl swaddled there, still slick with birthblood. Birthblood and deathblood, for her mother had died on her childbed. Corradino clenched his fists till the nails bit.
I do not want to think of Angelina.
He turned instead to find peace in the view across the lagoon. He liked to study the water and gauge its mood - today in sunshine the waves resembled his ghiaccio work - blown blue glass, several different hues, melted together and plunged in ice to give a finely crackled surface. Corradino had refined the art ofghiaccio by floating sulfate of silver on the surface of the iced water. This way the hot glass would accept the metal as it cracked and seal it within when it cooled, giving the impression of sunlit water. The sight of the laguna looking exactly thus gave him confidence.
I am a master. No-one can make the glass sing like I do. I an the best glassblower in the world. I hear the water reply; yes, but that is why the French want you and no-one else.
He looked across the lagoon to San Giorgio Maggiore, and watched the spice boats pass the unfinished church of Santa Maria della Salute. The rich reds and yellows of the spices and the dark hues of the merchants' skins were framed by the clean white stones of the vast structure. These were all sights that he relished. Gondolas sliced the water and courtesans rode bare-breasted and wanton in their Carnevale finery. Corradino admired not their flesh but the silk of their gowns. The colour and form of the falling material as it caught the sun. The rainbow of hues like the inside of an oyster. He watched for a while, enjoying one of his rare moments of freedom from the foundry, from the fornace, from Murano. He admired the axe shaped prow of the gondola, with the six branches to denote the six sestiere or regions of the city. The city he loved. The city he was leaving tomorrow. He said the names over to himself, rolling the words on his tongue like a poem or a prayer.
Cannaregio, Dorsoduro, Castello, Santa Croce, San Polo and San Marco.
In time the wash of the gondola reached him, slapping gently against the mossy marble of the dock, and brought him to himself. He must not tarry too long.
I have a present for her.
Corradino ducked down the calle at the side of the church of Santa Maria della Pieta which adjoined the Orphanage. He peered through the ornamental grille that allowed passersby to see through to the cool darkness within. He could see a group of the orphan girls with their viols and violoncellos, with their sheet music. Seated at the edge he could see her blonde head bobbing as she talked to her friends. He saw, too, the head of Father Tommaso at the front, tonsured by nature, instructing a group that stood ready to sing. Now was his moment.
With his indifferent voice echoing in the calle, Corradino began to sing a well known tune used by meat traders or pastry sellers to attract buyers to their wares. The words, however, were changed, so that only one person would know him for who he was, and she, alone, would come to him:
`Leonora mia, bo bo bo,
Leonora mia, bo bo bo.'
Soon she was there at the grille, her little fingers curled through the ornamental panel to touch his. `Boon giorno Leonora.!
'Buon giorno Signore:
`Leonora, I told you that you can call me Papa!
'Si Signore.'
But she smiled. He loved her sense of humour and the way she had become familiar enough with him to take liberties. He supposed she was growing up - soon she would be a practised coquette of marriageable age.
`Did you bring me a present?ff
'Well, now, let's see. Perhaps you can tell me how old you are today?'
More little digits pushed through the grille. Five, six, seven. `Seven:
`That's right. And haven't I always given you presents on your name day?'
`Always:
`Well, let's hope I haven't forgotten it.' He made a pantomime of searching through his smock and all his jerkin pockets. At last he reached behind his ear and pulled out the glass heart. With relief he saw his measurements were correct as he pushed the gem easily through the grille and heard Leonora gasp as it fell into her hand. She turned it over on her little palm to admire the captured light.
`Is it magic?' she asked.
`Yes. A special sort. Come closer and I'll explain.'
Leonora pressed her face to the grille. The sun caught the gold motes in her green eyes and Corradino's heart failed him.
There's some beauty in this world I could never recreate.
`Ascolta, Leonora. I have to go away for a while. But that heart will tell you that I will always be with you, and when you look at that heart and hold it in your hand you will know how much I love you. Try it now'
Her fingers closed round the heart, putting out the light.
She closed her eyes. `Can you feel it?' Corradino asked.
Leonora opened her eyes again and smiled `Yes,' she said.
`See, I told you it was magic. Now do you have that ribbon I gave you on your last name-day?'
She nodded.
`Well push it through the special hole I made and hang it round your neck. Don't let the Prioress see it, or Father Tommaso, or lend it to the other girls.' She clasped the heart and nodded again.
`Are you going to come back?'
He knew he could not. `Someday.'
She thought for a moment. `I'll miss you.'
He suddenly felt that his insides had been gutted, like the fish in the Pescheria market. He wished he could tell her of what he had planned - that he would send for her a soon as it was safe. But he dare not trust himself. The less she knew the better.
What she does not know, she cannot not tell; what she cannot tell, cannot not hurt her. And I know too well the poison that is hope, the waiting and the wanting. What if I can never send for her?
So he only said; `I'll miss you too, Leonora mia.'
She pushed her fingers through the grille again in their acknowledged sign. He caught the message and placed each of his printless pads on her tiny finger tips, little finger to little finger, thumb to thumb.
Suddenly the door to the calle opened and the tonsured head appeared. `Corradino, how many times do I have to tell you not to come sniffing round my girls? Is that not how this sorry mess came to pass in the first place? Leonora, return to the orchestra, we are ready to begin.'
With a last glance, Leonora was gone, and Corradino muttered an apology and made as if to leave. But when the priest had gone back inside the church, he stole back down the calle and listened as the music began. The sweetness of the harmony, and the soaring counterpoint, bled into his soul. Corradino knew what would happen, but he gave in to it.
For when she holds the glass heart in her hand she holds my own heart there too.
He knew he may never see Leonora again, so this time he leant against the church wall and let the tears flow, as if they would never stop.
CHAPTER 4
Through the Looking Glass
Still the music played.
Nora sat in the church of Santa Maria della Pieta and tried to think of a word for what she was feeling. Enchanted? Too reminiscent of old-wor
ld courtesies. Bewitched? No; the word seemed to imply an entrapment by a malign force.
But no-one has done this to me. I came here of my own volition.
She glanced left and right, at her unknown companions. The church was packed - her neighbour, an elegant Italian matron, sat so close that her red sleeve lay across Nora's forearm. But Nora did not mind. They were all here for the same reason, bound together, all - that was it; enraptured - by the music.
Antonio Vivaldi. Nora knew the soundbite version of his life - a red-headed priest, had asthma, taught orphans, wrote the Four Seasons. But he had never really troubled her musical radar until now. She had found him too cliched for her art-student trendiness - music for lifts and supermarkets, done to death. But here, in the warmth of candlelight, she heard Vivaldi played by live musicians, in the very church where he had written these pieces, first rehearsed them with his orphan girls. The musicians were all young, studious looking Italians, all extremely accomplished, who played with passion as well as technical excellence. They had not pandered to tourist sensibilities by donning period dress - they let the music speak. And here, Nora heard the Four Seasons as if for the first time.
Oh, she knew that the church itself had changed - she knew from her pamphlet guide that the Palladian facade was late eighteenth century, added after the maestro's death, but she felt as if the priest were here. She peered into the candling shadows beyond the pillars, where keen locals stood to hear the music, and looked fancifully for his red head amongst them.
When Nora had arrived in Venice she felt unmoored - as if she drifted, loosed from harbour, flowing here and there on the relentless arteries of tourism. Carried by crowds, lost in babel of foreign tongues she was caught in a glut of guttural Germans, or a juvenile crocodile of fluorescent French. Wandering, dazed, through San Marco she had reached the famous frontage of the Libreria Sansoviniana in the Broglio. Nora fell through its portals in the manner of one stumbling into Casualty in search of much needed medical attention. She did not want to act like a tourist, and felt a strong resistance to their number. The beauty that she saw everywhere almost made her believe in God; it certainly made her believe in Venice. But the city had physically shocked her to such an extent that she began to feel afraid of it - she needed to find an anchor, to feel that she could belong here as a native. Here in the library she would search for Corradino. Kindly, tangible words, factual lines of prose scattered with dates would be the longitudes and latitudes to bring her into safe harbour. Here he would meet her like a relative at an airport. Let me show you around, he would say. You belong here. You are family.
The Glassblower of Murano Page 2