The Glassblower of Murano

by Marina Fiorato

  `Where?'

  'Both places. Then I came back to the Police Academy in Milan, and then home to Venice when I qualified.'

  Alessandro expertly tapped out a cigarette, and offered her one with that international symbol of the raised eyebrows and questioning grunt. When she waved it away, he lit his own and took a long draw. She thought of what he had said. Home. Venice.

  My home too now.

  `So you made your decisions, then, in London?' she asked.

  `Not really. There was never really a choice. My parents were indulging me with those two years, giving me a false sense of autonomy. But I was always going to be a policeman. They knew it and I did too.'

  `Why?'

  Alessandro shrugged expressively. `Bardolino tradition. Father, uncles, grandfather ....'

  `But you're happy?'

  `I will be, if I pass for Detective. That's what I'm training for now.'

  `Well. The Mystery of the Missing Wedding Ring was all pretty convincing.'

  He laughed, not displeased. `Sherlock Holmes, eh? We'll see. It depends if I pass the exams. But being a beat cop in Venice is not much fun, unless you can take your nourishment from the views alone. It's all stolen cameras and lost luggage - tourist teething troubles. And we have a terrible reputation for stupidity - have you heard the one about why Venetian policemen always go around in twos?'

  Leonora shook her head.

  `One can read and one can write.'

  She smiled.

  `You think that's bad. The fire service have it even worse - they say the fire station in Venice has an answerphone for their emergency number, and a recorded message tells you that they'll attend to your fire in the morning.'

  Leonora laughed. `Is that how you lost the Fenice?' Venice's jewel of a theatre had burned to the ground ten years before.

  `No, that was the city's fault. The canal to the Fenice was so silted up that the pompieri boats could not get through in time to stop the blaze. Civic irresponsibility, I'm afraid. This place is falling apart.'

  `And sinking?'

  Alessandro shook his head. `None of the locals really believe that the city is sinking. But one thing they do believe is that lots of people are making money out of perpetuating the fear that it is. There are plenty of so-called funds collecting to save the city, but most of the money just lines the pockets of the officials. No, the tourists are more of a problem than the water'

  Leonora was at once surprised at this statement and gratified that Alessandro did not seem to include her in his definition. `The tourists?' she queried. `Aren't they the lifeblood of the city?'

  Alessandro shrugged expressively. `Yes. But if blood pressure gets too high it can kill, you know. There are about a hundred tourists for each native Venetian now That's why all the locals know each other. We stick together. And the city will survive. Venice has been here for centuries, and she'll be here for centuries more. There's a certain ... continuity.'

  Leonora nodded, while her fingers plucked at the wax. `I know what you mean' Then, as if taking a step towards intimacy, she admitted, `When I first saw you, I thought you looked like a painting. I don't know which one though.!

  `I do.' He smiled, but did not elaborate. `It's common here. You see the same features walking around that have been here for hundreds of years. The same faces. The only face you never see is that of Venice. She always goes masked, and beneath the mask she's always been corrupt.'

  'Plenty to do for a Detective then, with such widespread corruption'

  Alessandro gave a wry smile. `Yes, actually. High Crime in Venice is as interesting as the petty crime is tedious. Art theft, property fraud, smuggling. Boys' own stuff.'

  She could sense that he wasn't entirely joking. `And when are the exams?'

  `In two month's time. If I pass those, I'll be happy.' He finished his beer and regarded her over the empty bottle. `And you? What will make you happy? Are you looking for a lead casket? A new Paradise?'

  Leonora dropped her eyes.Again his thoughts had chimed with hers - plucked out the heart of her mystery. She looked at the candle between them and realized that she had picked off every vestige of wax from the bottle that held it. The glass stood as green and smooth as when it had first held wine, freed from its wax prison. As she watched, fresh clear wax spilled from the pool below the wick and assumed a milk-white solidity as it fell on the virgin glass. She answered at last. `No. I'm not looking.'

  I believed what I said ... then. I went on believing it right up until the moment that he leaned over and kissed me. Hard stubble, soft mouth, and afire I had forgotten about.

  They walked in silence through the empty streets. San Marco was deserted, a yawning space like a roofless cathedral. Only the crystal stars formed the crossribs and bosses overhead. The night was chill but Leonora burned. The pigeons now roosted but her thoughts flew.

  With an impulse she could not explain she turned perfect cartwheels across the square, stars wheeling over her feet, hair sweeping the stones. She could hear Alessandro laughing as she span. She did not know the meaning of the kiss, but she knew what she was feeling.

  It feels too much like joy, senseless joy.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rendezvous

  Corradino stared into his double mirror with satisfaction. It hung, in pride of place, on the back wall of the Cantina Do Mori. He knew he had done good work - the surface was smooth as the lagoon on a spring day and the bevel was perfect - even his eye could see no flaw. He averted his gaze before it could meet itself and sat at the couch beneath his mirror to wait. Corradino had never met his own eyes in a mirror. He barely knew his own image. He always looked at the glass - his vision stopped at the surface and looked no deeper to peruse his own visage. Perhaps he feared what he may find there, or perhaps he had no interest in his own features, but only those of the glass. He never asked himself these questions.

  He only knew that Signor Baccia, the proprietario of the Do Mori, would be pleased with this mirror. He wondered though, why he had been summoned again - the walls of the Cantina were now completely clothed in paintings or mirrors. Such opulence reflected the prosperity of the place, a thriving watering hole for two centuries now. Baccia no doubt had more money to spend, and was about to overdo it. Corradino winced - more mirror work would throw off the beautiful lucent balance of his unique double mirror, shining in its twin loveliness - like Castor and Pollux - a constellation of perfection. Part of Corradino's disgust was reserved for this new brew, coffee, that he was sampling as he waited. He had never really formed a taste for it.

  It rots my guts. Give me a good goblet of Valpolicella any day.

  At length Signor Baccia emerged from the back of the busy cafe. Rotund and richly dressed in the latest Frenchstyle chemise, he stopped to talk to a group of gaudy Venetian matrons who were participating - a little self consciously - in this latest of fashions.

  Baccia looks a little strange today.

  Normally the proprietario was affable, avuncular, jolly. Today he was all of those things, but seemed nervous, as if today his demeanor was little more than an act. A heavy man, he nonetheless sweated too copiously for the cool of the day, and cast darting glances from side to side, as if followed. Corradino wondered if he had got himself into some kind of trouble with The Ten, and was under the eyes of an agent. Corradino had no such doubts about himself. He had the relaxed air of someone who knew he was constantly being followed.

  He had seen eyes staring at him from masked darkness for years now. The man leaning at the traghetto stop. The bonbon trader in the street who looked a little too hard at him. The courtesan on the Ponte delle Tette with a warm smile but eyes of flint. A thousand different guises in a thousand different places. Always discreet, but over the years Corradino had learned to identify them in a moment. Each time his eyes fleetingly met those of these spies, whether tall or short, male or female, he had a sick fancy that each pair belonged to the same agent - the dark phantom that had followed him to the fornace all those y
ears ago.

  The man that murdered my family.

  But surely Baccia had nothing to fear? He was a man of the State through and through. Corradino knew that the Council subsidized the rents of this plot, and that much of the Republic's business was conducted at the Do Mori under the mask of sociability. And yet Baccia did look - yes, definitely, he looked ill at ease. The proprietario made his way at last to Corradino and, at the greeting kisses, Corradino could feel the film of perspiration on Baccia's cheeks.

  `Antonio?' said Corradino interrogatively as Baccia sat heavily on the brocade couch opposite. `What's the purpose of this meeting? Not more mirrors to tip your cafe into the realms of a brothel?'

  Baccia looked positively ill as he leaned in to Corradino, his breath heavy and laced with wine. `Corradino. Listen well. Lean back in your seat for me.'

  `What? ...' Corradino was perplexed, but at a fervent nod from his friend he did as he was bid. He pushed his shoulders back, further, further, until at last they met other shoulders - of the patron sitting back to back with him on the other side of the settle. At once Corradino made as if to address the man, to excuse himself, but a voice stopped him which was not Baccia's.

  'No. Don't turn around. Eyes are upon us.!

  The Italian was perfect, but had the Frankish accent that took Corradino back twenty years to his French tutor. His childhood flooded into his head like a blush as the blood thrummed in his ears.

  'Monsieur Loisy?' It was all he could do not to turn and throw himself into the man's arms.

  `No. My name is Duparcmieur. Gaston Duparcmieur. We have never met. But in time you shall know me better.' The voice had an authority, but was warmed with a touch of amusement.

  Corradino felt irritated at his mistake - as if he had given himself away. He clothed his discomfort in anger but something, still, kept him from turning round. With his eyes on the discomfited Baccia he said sharply, `What's this about? I will not place myself in danger.'

  He felt the shoulders shift, and again, the amusement and authority married in the voice of the Frenchman. `Corradino, you have always been in danger. Since the day that your uncle Ugolino betrayed you to The Ten and you and your family flew for your lives. Did you know too that it was your uncle who betrayed your family's whereabouts to the agents of the Republic? He sold the death of your mother for his own safety, but in this he was deceived - they took him too and left only you, my little glassblower.'

  Corradino leapt from his seat, and was immediately encircled firmly in the bearlike arms of Baccia. The proprietario clasped him and kissed him again on both cheeks. Loudly he bellowed; `That's settled then. Two more mirrors for the salon. And they shall be works of art, just as you have made before: He drew Corradino close and Corradino felt warm breath on his ear as Baccia hissed; `Corradino, you must listen to this man, do not rise or turn, do not give in to your passions. This man can help you, but we are watched. Be still. Sit and talk to him, as if you talk to me.'

  Corradino sat slowly and tried to collect himself. What did this mean? Could it be true of his uncle Ugolino, who had loved him so well? That he was a traitor? A thousand questions crowded his brain. The only one he could articulate was; `Who are you?'

  `If you would know me, you may gaze into your own mirror. But be swift, and secret:

  Corradino slid his eyes left and met those of the man who sat behind him. He was dressed in wine velvet, in the style of a doctor of Padua, and a long nosed, white, medico mask lay in his lap. But the pointed beard and curled moustaches were those of a French dandy. His eyes, as they steadily held Corradino's, were of the grey slate that he powdered and added to his marver for the semblance of pewter. The Frenchman looked young, not much beyond his middle years. Perhaps thirty like Corradino himself.

  `You see, you and I are of an age,' said the Frenchman, as if reading thought. `But our differences are more marked. I love my country, as you have ceased to love yours. And you can work the glass like an Alchemist trained by Angels. And that is why I am here.'

  `How do you know of my family?'

  `You mentioned a man of my country that you loved well. He is known to me also.'

  `Monsieur Loisy? He lives?'

  `He does not'The voice was brief. `He was betrayed and the assassins found him. But not before he could tell us of his extraordinary pupil. You see, he never lost his concern for you and your well-being. He made enquiries and found that you lived, and were working on Murano. He followed your progress, as did we. But those who seek can also be found. His tracing of you led to the tracing of him. He was found, and poisoned by The Ten as he visited these shores hoping for sight of you.'

  Corradino's head throbbed with his pulses and he could barely draw breath. Sadness for Loisy, and love for his loyalty, could not be given space here as the questions succeeded one upon the other. `How do you know this?' `Because I was one of those that aided him.!

  'And stood by as he was murdered?'

  `Loisy was warned not to return here. He did not heed my advice. You should not emulate him.'

  Corradino held the eyes of the silent Baccia as his stomach lurched. The treacherous coffee beans ground the humours in his stomach and left a residue in his mouth - he tasted them and this evil news together. His searching brain at last found the needful question. `What do you want of me?'

  `We want your skills. What else?'

  `And who is We?'

  `Myself, of course. But more importantly, His Majesty King Louis XIV of France.'

  Corradino choked. He stared into Baccia's bloodshot orbs, traced the map of capillaries he saw there as if perusing the royal bloodlines of France.

  `What can you mean?'

  `All will be told to you in time. But know this. We can help you; give you the life you deserve, in Paris. You will be feted as an artist, celebrated as a genius, not treated as a menial slave as you are here. We can give you riches, and nobility. Think of it - your country of Venice has used you for her ends, to augment her beauty, but has given you nothing. She has enslaved you - you, of the noble line of Manin. Not only that, but she has taken your family from you,' the voice paused, `nearly all your family.'

  Corradino's head snapped left and again he met the pewter eyes. What followed was little more than a whisper from the Frenchman.

  `You could bring her too.'

  Leonora. He knows of Leonora.

  `Don't decide now,' said the voice as Corradino turned away in sick turmoil. `You must not tarry here or we will be discovered. Stay and talk with Signor Baccia. He will make all seem as usual - he will order somewhat of you, and you must take the measurements and write them in your vellum notebook as you always do. Then leave, go back to Murano, and do nothing. Presently your foreman will tell you of a commission at the Old Theatre, and that you are to come to Venice to meet with a Maestro Domenico about a candlebra. If you come to this meeting you will see me again - I will be Maestro Domenico, and I will tell you of the King's desires. If you decide you want no more of this, plead of sickness and send another in your place. We will not trouble you again.'

  Corradino felt the shoulders shift as the Frenchman rose. As Duparcmieur adjusted his cloak and mask he said, in a final undertone, `Think on this, Corradino. What do you owe your Republic of Venice? Why not begin again, in France, with your daughter?'

  Then, with a flourish, he was gone.

  Corradino sat, as if stunned, as the proprietario went mechanically through his instructions for a mirror that would never be made. Then he made his way through the crowds of San Marco as if sleepwalking, while his ever-present shadow followed him. In his stupor he almost wandered towards San Zaccaria, to the Pieta, to tell Leonora. But he checked himself. He must not risk it, not when the footsteps were following. He must not spoil it now.

  Not now that there is a way for us to be together.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Merchant of Venice

  As soon as Leonora entered Adelino's office, and took the proffered seat, she could tell that so
mething was afoot. For one thing, there was a large white flip chart obscuring the beloved view across the lagoon. For another, two extra chairs held a pair of fairly unusual and wholly unfamiliar individuals. Adelino introduced them as `Chiara Londesa and Semi, from the Attenzione! Agency in Milan' On hearing the word `agency', Leonora knew she had not imagined that exclamation mark. They were in advertising.

  Warily, she eyed the strangers, as they eyed her back in the planner of a couple examining a cut of meat before purchase. Chiara Londesa sported a cropped t-shirt featuring a near-pornographic manga design. Her swarthy colouring and calculating sloe eyes were offset by a shock of brutally short peroxide hair. Her colleague Semi, who seemed to boast no surname, was even odder. From top to toe he was dressed as the perfect English gentleman - Norfolk jacket, severely knotted tie, and polished Lobb shoes. As he leant forward Leonora could see - surely not? - the glint of a fob watch and chain peeping from his pocket. She fought the urge to laugh.

  In the prolonged silence Semi rose and circled Leonora's chair, stroking his chin in an affected gesture straight from a James Mason movie. With the air of one selling his daughter to white slavers Adelino said, `see? Didn't I tell you?'

  Semi, still circling, nodded. Expecting cut-glass Brideshead tones, Leonora found his perfect Italian an audible shock. `Si. Perfetto.'

  Perfect for what?

  Semi and Chiara, now ignoring Leonora, began to converse passionately in urbane Milanese. Through the frantic handgestures and rattled speech Leonora picked out a number of ominous words. Press ads. Interviews. Local, then national. Flyers to hotels for their hospitality packs. Photoshoot. Storyboard. At this last Chiara crossed to the flip chart and revealed an image which seemed to depict a blonde Botticelli Angel blowing a trumpet at heaven's gates. Leonora rose and looked closer. She had been mistaken. The angel was wearing jeans and a tight fitting vest. The trumpet was no trumpet but a blowpipe. The bell of the trumpet was an exquisite vase. The angel was blowing glass. The image was beautiful and terrible, and now at last Leonora did laugh. She turned back to three totally serious faces.