The Glassblower of Murano

by Marina Fiorato

  `Let me be clear about this.You're proposing to run some sort of ... advertising campaign ... on the back of, well, me?'

  `Not just you, Signorina Manin, but your exalted ancestor' With a practised flourish, Chiara turned the page. 'May I introduce: The Manin range.'

  Oh no.

  Visuals and slogans shouted at Leonora. Photos, mock-ups for packaging.

  More pages with copy lines writ large: `The Glass that built the Republic."See the real Venice through our Glass! 'Manin Glass, made by true Venetians for 400 years."Manin Glass, the original Venetian Glass' Over and again there were images of the blonde Botticelli (presumably herself) and a dark child in a frock coat and ruf.

  'Unfortunately, there is no adult portrait of Corrado Manin. He fled his family home aged ten, so there is just this which we took from a family group.' Chiara's shrug expressed regret for this personal tragedy - not for the little boy's loss, but that she herself was inconvenienced by the lack of an adult image. Leonora studied the closed, serious face of the little boy who had grown into greatness. The designers had excised him from the painting, separated him from his family once again to stand alone. She had not known of this portrait, or even this part of his history, and felt ashamed.

  How is it that these grotesques straight from the Commedia dell'Arte know more of Corradino than I do myse? Because they bothered to (find out. I must know more about him.

  Chiara's pitch continued apace. `Our campaign depends on two major elements - Corrado Manin, the Mozart of glassmaking, gives this foundry's output the continuity of long history - the solid, antique image with an impeccable Venetian pedigree. And you Signorina, are his ancestor - and the only female glassblower on the islands. We can sell the modernity of the latest designs on your image - the contemporary, the avant-garde, but always with the weight of your family history at your back.'

  1 feel sick.

  Leonora turned to Adelino and spoke urgently in sotto voce Veneziano. `This is obscene!'

  Adelino rose and took her to the window `Scusi,' - this to the Milanese who had gone into a huddle over a layout pad, clearly planning their next assault on the Manin name.

  Adelino weighed in with a pitch of his own. `Leonora mia, calm down. It has always been like this. The Rialto tradesmen of the Renaissance, and Corradino himself, would have done anything to rise above the competition. They had no artistic sensibilities. They were businessmen - just as I am.' Seeing her resistance he took her hand in a final appeal. 'Leonora, I am overstretched. I have offshore interests; have borrowed widely to prop up the business. The fornace is struggling.'

  Leonora looked across at the spires of San Marco; the view that had delighted her just a few short weeks ago when she had been given this job. Now the beloved towers seemed a bed of nails, a nest of swords where she would be impaled as a public spectacle. The lagoon was still and serene today, but her mind felt buffeted by tidal winds.

  My mind is tossing on the ocean.

  'What will the maestri think? I am a newcomer, a novice: Leonora thought of Roberto's chilling antagonism, and the dislike of her that he had spread like a virus through the fornace.'I can't put myself forward in this way. It's unthinkable.'

  'On the contrary,' countered Adelino. 'Your family have been here longer than any. Corrado Manin built this industry. And you yourself have a talent, a precocious talent. Don't worry about the maestri, they will be grateful. If you improve business, they will do well, and keep their jobs. Maybe even receive bonuses. Their families will thank you too.'

  It was the irresistible argument. If she could do anything to help the maestri, she knew she would do it. If the prosperity of the fornace turned around, would not even Roberto, in time, be forced to acknowledge her uses and forget their unfortunate start? Moreover, Leonora knew the unsaid truth: if she did not do this for Adelino, what good was she? Why did he need an extra worker, a beginner at that?

  I am to be the pound of flesh.

  `Do I have a choice?'

  In answer Adelino turned back to the Milanese. `She agrees. Set it all up.'

  Chiara and Semi looked up from their pad with expressions of faint amazement.They had never felt that Leonora's compliance would be in any doubt.

  Adelino was alone at last. His head ached after a protracted discussion in which the advertising team had been forced to make several concessions to Leonora in the battle for good taste. He glanced at the screen of his ancient computer, where the portrait of a ten-year-old Corradino sat, still and silent under glass. He addressed the long dead boy.

  `What can you do for me, Corradino?'

  Catching himself, he turned to the window The flipchart had gone back to Milan, so he could gaze out to sea unobstructed, like a merchant of old waiting for his argosies to richly come to harbour.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Dream of a King

  Corradino clutched at the heavy velvet curtains, feeling the sweat from his printless fingertips soak into the nap of the fabric. For a moment he felt a fear that was so palpable it sent a chill through his stomach and bowels, and muddled his senses so that he could barely remember what he must say.

  `Maestro Domenico?' At last the name that he had repeated in his head like a catechism for the last month returned to him.

  He had gone back to work after meeting Duparcmieur and tried to live as normal. But normality had left him now, seemingly forever. He recalled the conversation constantly in his head, remembering every word, every look, every nuance. For days he lived in the dread and excitement of hearing the summons of Maestro Domenico. In his dreams this alias had assumed an identity of its own, a ghostly, terrifying shade who removed his mask to reveal the rotting countenance of his uncle Ugolino. Ever present, too was the mortal fear that The Ten would discover that he had attended a clandestine meeting and at last seek his life. Corradino even considered denouncing the Frenchman to the Council - he could take an agent to the next meeting and have Duparcmieur put to death, and prove himself a loyal member of the Republic. Three things stayed him from this course.

  Firstly, he felt a natural resistance to taking the path of his uncle and denouncing another man through the Lion's mouth. He had long thought it odd that in Dante's Divina Commedia - the book he read now as his bible - the lisping, hapless traitor that suffered the torments of the Inferno was called Ugolino, like his beloved dead uncle. Now he knew how fitting it was that his uncle shared a name with this unfortunate Florentine.

  For my uncle was the worst kind of traitor; one who betrayed his family.

  Betrayal of the State was but a small sin next to this.Which brought Corradino to the second reason.

  Duparcniieur's words rang in his head: `What do you owe the kepublic, Corradino? She has enslaved you.'

  It was true. He loved his work - lived it even, but he knew that only his skills kept him alive. If for any reason he ceased to be able to do his work, he would be lost. And they had done worse, much worse ...'Taken your family from you ... nearly all ...' Aye, that `nearly' was what stopped him betraying Duparcmieur. The third reason.

  Leonora.

  As the days turned to weeks of waiting - to the point where Corradino asked himself if he had dreamt all - he had the overriding desire to find out more of the Frenchman's plan. Was there a way he could begin a life overseas with Leonora? She whom he loved as he had loved no one else since his own mother?

  Over the weeks his fears receded and were replaced. He now felt a hunger, an impatience to be contacted. Would the summons ever come? Had the Frenchman been denounced by another - perhaps Baccia - and even now lay tortured, dying, dead?

  Yesternight, though, the summons had come at last. Giacomo, with the air of one who knew nothing beyond his words, had passed on a message that Corradino was to meet Maestro Domenico of the Old Theatre at noon of the next day. Corradino had given a disinterested nod while his stomach lurched. He excused himself, went outside, and vomited into the canal.

  Here, now, at the Teatro Vecchio, the maze of stai
rs and corridors had brought him to this curtain. He knew not where it led, only that once he drew its folds aside, there could be no return.

  Or I could leave now.

  In tones hoarse as a crow, he spoke the name, and there was silence. With a mixture of disappointment and relief he wondered if there were no one there. But those accents he remembered so well spoke from beyond the arras.

  `Si. Entrate.'

  With a shaking hand, Corradino drew the heavy drape aside and entered into he knew not what. Like the Dante of his book - of his father's book - he entered on a new path, with a new guide, midway through the journey of his life. He knew naught of where the road would lead, or the one who would lead him.

  `So, you have come, Corradino.'

  Corradino's ready reply died on his lips. He could not see the one who spoke, only the spectacle below.

  He was standing in a box-like extrusion above a dark and cavernous space. But at the fore of the space was a shining arc of gold, a baroque riot of giltwork crowning a stage that was brilliant with the light of a thousand candles. On the stage were characters - such characters! Not the pantomime costumes of the Commedia dell'Arte, or the gaudy garb of the Carnevale, but players dressed in cloth of gold, jewels, and tissue of silver. One such princess stood with the company grouped around her in the attitude of an antique painting, and she sang with such passing beauty that Corradino all but forgot his fear and trouble. But this was not the holy beauty of the Pieta choir, but a secular, joyful song in a language he did not know

  `Monteverdi,' said Duparcmieur's voice. `This is an aria from L'incoronazione di Poppea. Claudio was considered to be somewhat of a genius, but, as with most of that type, a deeply irritating man. You have not been to the opera before?'

  Corradino shook his head, dazed.

  `These and other delights await you when you enter Paris, an even greater city of culture. Close the drapes behind us, and we may have our conference while we enjoy the song. It is, of course, vital that we are not seen. This is why we meet as these players rehearse!

  Corradino did as he was bid, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the box he could at last make out the figure of his conspirator.

  'Do sit down, my dear fellow. There is a chair behind you.

  As Corradino sat, he peered at Duparcmieur through the gloom. Gone were the doctor's weeds, and in their place the flamboyant garb of a theatrical impresario. The hair and whiskers were unstyled today, and silvered to give an aged artistic look.

  `Well. And to our business. I think our best approach is for me to put our proposal to you, and then you may question me. Agreed?'

  Corradino nodded faintly in the dark, but the movement was caught by the Frenchman.

  `Good. Then I will begin, for our time here is short.You have heard, I suppose, of His most illustrious Majesty, King Louis XIV of France.'

  Another nod.

  `Indeed. Who has not. In reflection of his glorious reign and great wisdom, the finest architects are even now building what will be the most magnificent royal palace in the known world, in the lands of Versailles near Paris. Greater than those of the ancient Roman or Egyptian peoples, than those of the Nabobs and Maharjees of the Indies, than the antique and noble Greeks. Greater even than those strange and wonderful mansions of the Chinois in the Orient that your own countryman, Marco Polo, lately found. And yet, in order to do this, and set such a place apart, His Majesty has himself had a notion which will have men wondering for centuries.!

  Corradino found his voice. `And what is his notion?'

  'He wishes to construct a great chamber entirely out of mirrors.

  Corradino was silent. The song from below drifted through his brain as he imagined such an audacious thing.

  `How interesting.' The amusement that he remembered well returned to the Frenchman's voice.

  `What interests you?' asked Corradino.

  `That you did not say at once that it could not he done.

  This convinces me even more that you are the man for the task.'

  `Why must the King build such a thing? The expense will be very great, the work difficult and long.'

  In the gloom Corradino could see the expansive wave of the Frenchman's hand.

  `These things matter not to His Majesty. What matters is the show and pomp of royalty. Such a palace, with such a hall, will make other great men esteem him greatly. Politics hang upon magnificence, Corradino. We are esteemed by our person, and our possessions. Such a place could become a centre of policy for centuries to come. Great councils will be held there, and great deeds done!

  'I see. And you want me to help you.'

  Now was Duparcmieur's turn to nod.

  `We wish you to come to Paris. We will quarter you in comfort and luxury in the lands around the Palace, and you will superintend the mirror and glasswork. After a time, when all is safe and the work progresses well, we will send for your daughter.'

  Corradino started `She cannot travel with me?'

  A shake of the perfumed head. `Not at once. The danger is great for one, much greater for two. It is much safer that she stays here for now You must tell her nothing of this, for her own sake, even when you take your leave.'

  `But Monsieur, there is no possibility of my being able to leave the city alive. I am watched at every turn and under great suspicion for reasons of my family.!

  Then Duparcmieur leaned close, so close that Corradino could smell the pomade of his hair, and feel the warmth of his breath. `Corradino, you will not leave the city alive.'

  CHAPTER 13

  The Cardinal's Nephew

  The house at least, is mine. I am the tenant. I will make it a home.

  Discomfited by the developments at the fornace, dreading the photoshoots and interviews she knew would come, Leonora had two comforts: her work, as the glass began to answer to her hand and breath, and the little flat in the Campo Manin. When she returned home in the amber light of the evening - for there were to be no more invitations from her colleagues to keep her out after dark - she felt her heart lift as she got her first glimpse of the old building, sleeping in the evening sun, bricks the colour of a lion's pelt. Her eyes raised automatically to the two uppermost windows - her windows.

  This was the first home that was truly hers. Here she was answerable to no-one, not her mother with her academic books and fine prints, not her student housemates with their hippy artschool chic, and not Stephen with his solid, unoriginal antiques and magnolia walls. She would create the home that she wanted - surround herself with the colours and textures and things that she wanted to see every day, to offset her own new self.

  She began to spend her weekends wandering the markets of the city - alone but not lonely, picking up fabrics and objects that spoke to her of Venice. She rooted through the little dark and secret shops of the Accademia on her own private treasure hunt. She returned home triumphant with her booty like a latter-day Marco Polo. The darkwood bowl she had found in the Campo San Vio was placed on the kitchen table and filled with a pyramid of fragrant lemons from the San Barnaba fruit boats. The enormous stone toe, hewn from some statue (where? And when?) which was so hefty she had had to have it delivered, now propped open the kitchen door. She poured over paint charts and spent long hours covering the walls - her living-room-bedroom she painted the sea-turquoise she had seen in the stairway, a colour she hoped had bled through time from Corradino's age, which she garnished with gilt edging and gold sconces. She found an enormous old mahogany box bed, which had to be hoisted through the window with the help of her enthusiastic and voluble neighbours. She made it up with soft pillows and bedspreads of creamy Burano lace, tatted by the old women who sat in the doorways of their coloured houses, warmed by the sun as their fingers flew in their laps. The kitchen she painted a glowing blood red, and collected little tiles the colour of stained glass, to mosaic above the sink. She found a block of ancient wood at a house clearance - huge and dark, it had the vestiges of carving which suggested it had been hewn from a p
alace door. It served perfectly for a chopping board.

  The roof terrace she swept and tiled with terracotta slabs from Florence. She wired the balustrade for safety and bought numerous pots to fill with plants to give day-colour and night-scent - dotted around the terrace like portly little men. Many were filled with herbs to pinch for cooking - the basil she took downstairs to the kitchen windowsill, as the herb she knew she would use the most.

  Leonora and the pot of basil. I remember from school that ridiculous poem about Isabella - she hid her lover's head in her pot, under the herb. Perhaps Keats' mad bad and dangerous pal had more of a clue about love - Byron lived here, loved here. Mind you, he threw his mistresses into the grand canal when he tired of them. Have I been discarded too? Will I see him again?

  Leonora's Cork Street glassware languished, carefully packed, stowed in the kitchen cupboard. It seemed to her now too sterile, clever and over-worked. Instead she chose some of the more amateur, earthy pieces she had blown on Murano - squat, shallow hurricane lamps in primary colours - and ranged them along the balustrade. Tealights flickered inside, warming the glass as the dusk fell. She decided against any patio furniture - she had no expectation of guests - but bought luxurious, fat cushions in jewel coloured silk, on which she lounged on sunny evenings with a glass of prosecco. Sometimes she sat on until the night chilled and the stars came. They seemed larger here. In London, even on the Heath, the stars seemed distant; refracted through a dusky prism of smog and dust. Here the stars stooped close - she felt she could reach up her hand and pluck one of the burning orbs like a celestial fruit. The sky was the dusky blue of the Virgin's cloak.

  Marta, her landlady, came round now and again, on little matters to do with the house, and had begun to stay for a glass of wine. She had become a tentative friend, and once brought round a fragrant Venetian stew of fish and beans in a warm stone pot. As the two women shared the feast and a bottle of wine, it was Marta who told Leonora the secret to Venetian cooking. `Simplicity,' she said briefly. `Here we have a saying: "non piu di cinque". Never more than five.Venetians say that you should not use more ingredients than you have fingers of one hand.'