The Glassblower of Murano

by Marina Fiorato

  `What do you know of Corradino Manin?

  `Corrado Mamn was the finest glassmaker of his time, and of any other. He escaped the murder of his family and hid on Murano, where he was taught the ways of the glass and became a maestro. He was particularly proficient at making mirrors, and became famous for it. It is said that the mercury of the mirrors finally killed him, as it killed many.'

  `So he died on Murano?'

  `I don't know for certain. But it seems likely.'

  Leonora exhaled with relief, but persisted.

  `Do you know anything about the story that he may have gone to France?'

  For the first time in the interview, the Professor looked discomfited. `Yes, I read that expose. Your colleague seems to be harbouring quite a grievance. I'd like to know what the `Primary Source' is that he thinks he has. I imagine that you would not feel comfortable approaching him yourself?'

  `There's absolutely no way that Roberto would tell me anything, least of all help me to exonerate Corradino. He's so angry with me that I'm afraid of him. I keep expecting him to ambush me from the shadows' She tried to laugh, but could see the Professore was not convinced. He did not probe further into her fears, but moved on.

  `And the young lady at the paper? Might she be approached?'

  Leonora shook her head. She had put in a call to II Gazzettino as soon as she had read Roberto's revelations. She was eventually put through to a frosty sounding Vittoria, who had abandoned all pretence of friendliness. She was sorry, Signorina Manin, but the supporting documents of her sources were strictly confidential, particularly in this case as Signor Roberto del Piero had asked that they remain so. There was a chance that they'd be doing a follow-up story in which the source would be reproduced, and Signorina Manin could look forward to that.

  `Hmm.' Padovani shrugged expressively `Ah well. One of the wonderful things about the study of history is that there is never just one definitive source, but many. If facts are diamonds, then our sources are the facets, each set at a discrete angle to make up the whole gem. We can do some detective work of our own, and find those other facets.'

  Leonora was encouraged by his use of the word `we' while his reference to detection warmed her with the thought of Alessandro.

  `It's possible that Corrado went abroad. But highly unlikely. It's true that French mirror-making took an enormous leap forward in the late seventeenth century, evidenced by the Palais de Versailles, which became the flagship for the enlightened century. Some say they had foreign intelligence, others say that they arrived at these methods through convergent evolution.'

  `Convergent evolution?' queried Leonora.

  The Professor explained. `In Africa, from the primeval mulch of single-celled soup, there evolved an enormous mastodon with large ears which we now call the African elephant. In India, there evolved, by the same method, a creature the same in all respects save the size of its ears. Both creatures evolved independently, separated by seas and landmasses, by tectonics, to arrive at the same place. Neither `copied' the other. They merely share a distant ancestor, as all glassware shares its mother; sand.They underwent convergent evolution.'

  Leonora pressed the point. `Professore, why would you say that it was highly unlikely that Corradino went to France?'

  'Because The Ten, the ruling body of the Consiglio Maggiore, took great exception to the defection of their artisans. They threatened their families with death if craftsmen took their secrets to foreign powers. Murano itself was something of a prison, although perhaps less so for a man like Corrado, who was possessed of a prodigious talent and was given dispensation to visit the city for his work.'

  Leonora broke in with the question that seemed obvious to her. `But Professore, why would The Ten hold any threat for Corradino, if all his family were dead?'

  `Because, my dear young lady, not all his family were dead. I have but a rudimentary grasp of the Biological Sciences but I do know that, if they were all dead, there would be no descendants such as yourself, my dear. Corradino had a daughter.!

  Leonora pressed her face into the towel, not caring how many grubby student hands had dried there before. She felt a fool - running out of the Professore's room like that, and skidding into the nearest bathroom to heave into the nearest toilet bowl. Why was this revelation such a shock to her? If she had even thought it through logically, there must have been someone else, some lineage, or else how was she here? How did she have the glass heart that Corradino passed down all the way to her? She held the heart for courage as she walked shakily back down the hall and timidly re-entered the Professore's room. Padovani courteously stood, with concern in his eyes. She sat again and apologized.

  `Forgive me, I've been ... unwell ... for a couple of days now.

  The Professore nodded and took up his story. 'Corrado's daughter was also called Leonora. She was the product of an illegitimate union between Corrado and a noblewoman, Angelina del Vescovi, who died in childbirth. Leonora was taken in to the Pieta orphanage and trained in music. She was given the name of Marlin, but surnames were never used at the orphanage. The girls in the Pieta were always known by the instrument they played - `cello, violino - to maintain the anonymity of the bastard children of some very highly born families. She was always Leonora della viola, and was a very accomplished player. None would have known of her connection to Corradino, or even of her existence unless he himself told of it. Even The Ten had to respect the secrets of the Pieta, as the foundation had the weight of the church and its laws of sanctuary behind it. After Corradino's death Leonora was found by a distant cousin - a Milanese called Lorenzo Visconti-Manin - who was attempting to trace the disparate fragments of his family. The two fell in love and married, and she once again came into her rightful name. The Martins became a powerful force in Venice once again, and their descendant Lodovico Manin became a Doge, the last ofVenice before the Republic fell.!

  Leonora's head spun, but her nausea was gone in the hope that now consumed her. `So Corradino would not have left, for fear of his daughter's safety.'

  'No,' said the Professore. `That is not what I meant. The Ten knew nothing of the child, for she was secreted in the Pieta by her grandfather and no one knew who had fathered her. Angelina never told the name of her seducer, and took the secret to her grave. I merely meant that I thought it unlikely that Corradino would have left Venice while Leonora lived.Visits to a secret daughter in the Pieta would be risky, but not impossible. And I imagine the temptation would be very hard to resist.'

  Leonora was silent, digesting this.

  So the treachery story could still be true, if unlikely. And what of this new character, the lost girl with my name that had no family but the Pieta and only music for her friend. At least she found love in the end.

  She asked, `how would we find out more? Can we ever know for sure if Corradino left Venice?'

  `You could try the large library in San Marco - the Sansoviniana - they have guild records and also records of births and death, going back centuries. But I have told you all I know of Corradino's history, and this is the account that I gave Elinor' The Professore stood to stretch his bad leg. `My only other suggestion would be to try to find something out from the French end. I have some contacts at the Sorbonne who could help you.'

  Leonora took his cue and stood. `May I see you again? And will you contact me if you think of anything more?'

  `Of course. And you may mention my name for a reference in the rare book collections of the Sansoviniana.'

  I remember my first day here, when they would barely let me through the front door of the Sansoviniana. Now I am to be admitted to the inner sanctum.

  The Professore moved to his desk to write down numbers and the names of various document collections that might be helpful. Leonora scribbled down her phone numbers and as the papers were exchanged Padovani wondered if Leonora was actually going to leave without asking of that other Manin, but at last she said: `And my father? Did you know him?'

  The Professore shook his h
ead, with sympathy in his eyes. `As is the manner of young women in love, Elinor saw little of her friends and kept Bruno to herself. I only heard of his death through the local news.'

  At the mention of her father's name in this context, Leonora felt a wave of shame that she had not bothered to enquire after him before, so consumed was she with Corradino.

  `Is there any family still in Venice?

  `I don't know. Elinor mentioned that Bruno's parents lived in Verona, but they died long since.'

  Leonora knew of this but had not contemplated the loss before - of that immediate family that most take for granted; Grandparents. They had gone - without any of the usual meetings, knitted jumpers, chocolate bars, holiday outings. She collected herself - she knew that she must leave the Professore, and was anxious to begin her researches of the documents he had suggested, but felt she had a thousand more questions.

  As she moved to the door, with murmurs of thanks and promises to return, the Professore embraced Leonora warmly. Holding her arms he said, `one more thing. Tomorrow is the feast of All Souls, the Festa dei Morte, when the people ofVenice honour their dead. If you would see your father, he is buried on San Michele. Perhaps you will visit him. He too should be mourned!

  Leonora felt reproach, but also affection.

  I know I should go and see his grave. We should meet at last.

  I'll ask Alessandro to come too.

  She moved into the corridor and made to walk towards the stairs. The Professore called, `Leonora!'

  She turned. The old man looked directly at her, and said softly, `There are some things an old man can see that a young man can't. Look after yourself.'

  `I will,' she replied.

  The oak door closed and she headed down the stairs.

  I wonder how he knew?

  CHAPTER 21

  The Island of the Dead (part 1)

  The number 41 vaporetto to the Isola San Michele resembled a flower garden. On this day, the festival of All Souls, Venetians all honoured their dead with floral tributes, and headed for the cemetery on the island of San Michele. Leonora was pressed close to Alessandro, but equally close on her other side was a sizeable matron carrying an immense bunch of chrysanthemums. Leonora stared at the huge ugly blooms, and breathed their pungent antiseptic scent. She had never liked the flower - not just for aesthetic sensibilities, but because she associated them with death. Looking around the boat, she could see that, as in France also, chrysanthemums were indeed the flower of choice for mourners.

  Leonora and Alessandro had caught the boat from the Fondamenta Nuove. It was a short crossing - indeed the cemetery with its red walls and cloistered gates could be clearly seen from the city islands. Leonora was thankful for the brevity of the trip. With the crush of people and the smell of boat fuel, her nausea had returned. She moved closer to Alessandro and he dropped a reassuring kiss on her head - as he would to a child, she thought. She had told him that he needn't come with her, but he had protested that he wished to visit his grandmother's grave anyway. She knew this was only partly true - that he was there in support of her and her meeting with her father. She felt a warm thankfulness replace the sickness in her solar plexus. When he was with her she believed in him. She almost began to feel secure, that they had something like a relationship.

  They disembarked with the crowds, and entered the iron gates of the cemetery. Alessandro steered Leonora to a booth where one could purchase a map of the gravesites.

  `There are three cemeteries here,' said Alessandro `all tended by Fransiscan monks as they always have been. Although as you'll see, a little more care is taken of the Catholic plots than those of the other two - the Protestants and the Greek orthodox,' he smiled wryly, `so your father and my nonna are fortunate'

  Leonora registered his flippant ghoulishness and considered that it was his way of dealing with death. She was curious about this strange island where only the dead dwelt. She had the feeling that she would not like to live along the Fondamenta Nuove, where fancy would lead one to the window of an evening to watch for phosphorescent spirits rising over the sea. She gave herself a little shake and asked, `When did this island become a cemetery?'

  `In the days of Napoleon. Before that, the dead were taken to Sant'Ariano, which is just an ossuary now.'

  `A what?'

  `An island of bones.'Alessandro seemed to taste the words, as if contemplating the title for a sensational novel. `When the time runs out for the bodies here, they get shifted away to make way for new ones.!

  'What can you mean?'

  Alessandro led her up the tended pathway to the Catholic quarter. `I mean that Venetians are only allowed to be buried here for a certain length of time, after which they are dug up and moved.' He caught the look on Leonora's face. `It has to be so. Because of room - it's limited.' He shrugged, callously.

  `I didn't mean that ...'

  `Oh, I see. You mean you think he might not still be here? He will. You get forty years I think. And if your relatives pay, you can stay longer.'

  Leonora suddenly felt angry as she followed Alessandro through the quiet courts. She felt that there was no permanence, no rest for these people. But as she watched the mourners walking quietly between the graves, like flowing water that would always find its way between and round its obstacles, she relented. This end, this rest that was not rest, was a fitting end for the shifting, itinerant seafaring people. Venetians lived their lives crossing from island to island, from Rialto to San Marco, Giudecca to Lido,Torcello to Murano. Why not continue after death, this relentless flux, with the sea as your steed? What could be better for those merchants and crusaders who had boarded the boats at Zattere and left them at Constantinople? And for her father too, who had jumped from shore to boat, from boat to shore, to earn his living all his adult life. Leonora realized that tears were sliding down her cheeks.

  Idiot. You didn't even know him.

  But when it came to it, as Alessandro led her through the ranks of almost military-style graves, and she was brought face to face with her father's name etched neatly in stone, she felt nothing but a dry emptiness. She felt no urge for tears. Alessandro murmured that he would find his grandmother, and melted away, but Leonora hardly noticed.

  BRUNO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANIN 1949-1972

  He was only twenty-three when he died.

  She didn't know what to do. She was visiting the bones of a twenty-three year old man - a man she had never met, a man who was still ten years younger than her living self.

  And forever shall be ...

  The words - half remembered from school and Sunday church, rang their solemn refrain in her head. She was lost. At length, she lay down her tribute on the headstone - simple white daisies. Buy your favourite, don't try to guess his, Alessandro had said, and he had been right. Then she sat on the grass, looked at the stark letters and numerals again, and simply said: `Hello, I'm Leonora.'

  Alessandro found his grandmother in a matter of moments, and placed his roses at her headstone. He could scarcely remember her now, but though the complete memory eluded him, specifics remained. He remembered her black clothes, worn daily since the death of his grandfather. He remembered her tagliatelle con burro e salvia, which had never, in his opinion, been bettered by any trattoria. He remembered her wholly unexpected love for Vicenza Calcio, a love which had begun his own lifelong obsession with the team, and the game of football itself. He felt no grief, just fondness, as he crouched to flick dried twigs away from her plot and ran his thumbnail under a frill of lichen. He straightened up to look for Leonora, and quickly identified her bright head, bowed, her face hidden under her mass of hair. Discomfited, he thought she might be crying, then, as he saw her lips move, that she was praying. He crossed himself, but Leonora's eyes were open, and her demeanour more casual, more comfortable than one at prayer. He realized that, for the first time, she was having a conversation with her father.

  She did not know how long she had been talking. She had begun at the beginning, and told h
er father all about her life: her childhood, her art, Stephen, the childlessness, the divorce, the move to Venice, Murano, the house in the Campo Manin, and Alessandro. She talked of Corradino, of her extraordinary fondness for her - for their - ancestor. She spoke of the stain of treachery of which she had just learned, of Roberto, Vittoria and Professore Padovani. She even spoke of Elinor, of their difficult relationship, and asked about the Elinor that Bruno knew - that different Elinor of long ago, the romantic and reckless Elinor, so different from the buttoned and bitter woman that Leonora knew. She talked herself to a standstill, and felt better. She looked up at last, stretched her aching legs, and beckoned to a hovering Alessandro that they could go. As he started towards her she turned for one private farewell. She laid her hand on the warm stone with affection. `Goodbye. I'll come again.

  And I will.

  Alessandro and she walked to the vaporetto stop and prepared to cross the Styx again - but this time the water would take them from the province of the dead back to the land of the living. She had found some peace here. She still needed to find the truth about Corradino but it had done her good to connect with her father - her immediate family - first. And he had been so easy to talk to. She had told him everything. Everything save one thing.

  I didn't tell him I was pregnant.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Island of the Dead (part 2)

  The feeling of grit in my mouth, grating between my teeth.

  In his dream Corradino was on the Lido di Venezia, with his mother. The household were on a summer trip and the servants had roasted oysters on the beach while piccolo Corradino ran hither and thither in the surf, soaking his breeches with the whispering salt water. He was called to eat, and reclined on the blood-coloured velvet cushions with his mother's arm around him, her bosom smelling of vanilla. He tried an oyster for the first time, his eight-yearold palate first rejecting, then accepting the gelatinous creature as it slid down his throat. He tasted the oyster once it had left his mouth, and so began a lifelong partiality for this peasant food. The taste remained in the grittiness of the sand, left as a residue on his tongue, like sand washed up by a high tide; the acqua alta. In his dream he tasted the sand, the flesh of the oyster and the vanilla scent of his mother all at once, but when he woke at last, he knew he was far from the happiness of that day.