Sisters of Glass
Page 6
than you are. I wish you
had never found this.”
“But now I know
I cannot disappoint you,” I say.
Mother just shakes her head.
THE QUESTION I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO ASK
We are tucked in our beds.
The night’s faintest stars
glitter through the window
like crystal lace.
“Vanna?” I whisper her name,
uncertain whether I wish her
asleep or awake.
“Yes?”
“I know this sounds selfish,
but what about love and happiness?
Am I even to consider that?”
“I knew you would ask this, Maria.”
Her voice smiles at me even
through the dark. “Mother
said that comes later.”
“But how?” I ask. “I mean what if—”
“I don’t know everything, Maria,”
Vanna says, a twang of annoyance
in her tone. “Andrea Bembo
is said to have many charms.
You will have to discover yourself
what delights you about him.”
But that was not what I meant
at all.
SIGNORE BEMBO
When I see him my legs fall limp
and I almost timber under my skirt.
Giovanna described the man
as distinguished and charming,
but he seems to be another bald man
with sad squinty eyes.
I straighten my posture
and paint on a smile.
And remember this is not about me.
Mother asks, “How was your travel
to Murano?”
“Very well,” he says. Andrea Bembo’s
face opens and closes like a clamshell
but does not change shape when he speaks.
He is the color of putty.
My sons will look like mud.
“Maria has prepared a sketch
for your sister, Leona.”
Mother urges me to present
it to him.
Andrea smiles at my drawing
of our backyard garden in bloom.
My favorite part is the sand martin
trapped behind the glass window.
He accepts the sketch graciously.
“Leona will like this.
We both appreciate fine art. Grazie.”
I nod and smile
at his kind words,
though I wish to run.
I feel like something
is being decided upon
here and now
that is beyond anyone’s choice.
FLORAL DELIVERY
Ranunculus arrive
by the basketful
in vibrant reds and yellows
and fuchsias,
all telling me that
Andrea Bembo finds me
“radiant with charms.”
Mother’s face turns
to summer sun.
Giovanna clasps her hands.
“Well done, Maria!
He must have liked
the sketch and the dress
and you.”
I feed off of their excitement
like a nursing child.
I am so happy to please them.
The flowers smell fresh
and successful.
DAY AND NIGHT
The preparation
to be ready for
the ceremonies of preparation
I am not prepared for.
For now, we are to keep
the news of our plans
to be betrothed secret,
but we prepare nonetheless.
Noble girls begin learning these rituals
of dance and dress and dining and etiquette
when they begin breathing.
I cannot even stand properly
in the garments. And it seems I will need
more fine garments to be wed
than my family has possessed altogether
in my entire fifteen years of living.
I am covered in pinpricks
and stand nearly twelve hours
to be fitted by tailors;
all the while Vanna rattles
my ears, naming the five hundred guests
who will attend my banquets,
people I have never heard of,
no one from Murano.
And I must be able to greet them all,
but especially know the relations
between all the ducal family.
“For after the ship
takes you to consummate your marriage
and live in the house
of Andrea Bembo and his father,
you shall not return to us”—
Vanna can hardly
finish the last words—
“but only wave us good-bye
from on board.”
The tears stream my face.
“Surely that cannot be
the tradition.”
“No, you belong to them.”
“I must be alone.”
I usher everyone, even Vanna,
out of my room.
The moon crests low in the sky
tonight. I ignore my call to dine.
Comfort comes only one way—
when I stare at the second fornica
and imagine myself inside its warmth,
then pick up my chalk.
My sketchbook fills with pictures.
Like a carafe overfilling with water,
like a garden blooming boatloads
of flowers, I cannot contain
the images in my head.
And all of them Luca.
REPLENISHMENT
Instead of breakfast
I sneak out the servants’ door.
In the smolder of the furnace Luca shines.
“What would you do
if you could not blow glass?”
I ask him.
He lowers his blowpipe.
“I have never considered it.
To make glass to me at this point
is to breathe. Whatever else I did
would be inconsequential.”
“Father always said he would have been
as a sailor adrift, without compass or stars—
a blind sailor,” I say.
“It is as if you know my mind.”
Luca twirls the pipe to cool down
his glass, but his focus is all on me.
“Do you blow glass, Maria?”
“No. I might try it someday,
but Father never permitted me.”
I look at him straight, not lowering
my eyes. “But I do sketch.”
“Show me sometime.”
I nod agreement,
but what will I show him
when all I render lately
is Luca himself?
A SECOND SISTER
A boat of grandeur
filled with fruits and flowers
awaits Mother and Vanna and me
at Murano’s main harbor.
Andrea sent it for us
so that we can visit his sister, Leona,
today. As I step aboard,
I tremble, for I leave my island
for the first time.
With each pull of the ferryman’s oar,
Murano quickly diminishes behind us
until it seems my home has been
swallowed by the sea.
Vanna looks not at all behind her
but only forward onto Venice.
Venice towers, all the buildings
double or triple the size of those
on Murano. As they lift me off the boat,
I fear I will fall into the canal
and disappear like my island behind me.
We board a gondola
to the Palazzo Bembo
where Leona awaits us.
“There is the Ducal Palace
and Piazza San Marco.”
Vanna points out these places
as if they were as familiar to her
as the fornicas at home.
The sun so bright I squint,
all I can see is swirls of color,
a smeared canvas.
I clutch the boat’s rail.
My breath puffs and puffs.
I should be delighting in the architecture
of this new scenery, but I feel
like my father’s blind sailor here,
as if I am drowning.
“Maria, you look faint, child,”
Mother says. “Perk up now.”
And then I see it,
a smudge at first,
but then aside the great Rialto Bridge
sits a palazzo that could feast upon
and hold three of our little palazzi
inside its belly, it is that grand.
A girl stands so still and strict
I think at first she must be stone,
but then I see she has Andrea’s unblinking eyes.
No smile crosses Leona’s lips
as I come into view.
She waves to Vanna,
but I receive a dead stare,
and then Leona shows me
the back of her hat.
She can show me her hat
as much she desires now,
but once I live in that palazzo,
like it or not, she will have
to face my face.
ANDREA’S SURPRISE
The palazzo will devour me,
I am sure of it.
Three servants wait
on each of us, one with wine,
one with water,
one with capon?
How did they know
my favorite dish?
“Mother, did you tell
them what to serve?”
I try to make my voice
a whisper, but Leona overhears.
“My dear, naive Maria,
did you not think
Andrea would provide
you what you like to eat?”
Her tone swats at me like a fly.
I am about to shove
the veal-stuffed sausage
up her veal-stuffed nose
when Vanna says,
“It was very considerate of Andrea.”
“My brother is a delight,”
Leona says.
I can’t be sure I agree,
but before I have time
to weigh the evidence
my sister says,
“Maria, it is a lovely frame
they have chosen, is it not?”
Vanna points to the wall.
My sketch of the garden hangs,
my first ever mounted,
and right beside a Bellini.
I almost want to dance,
but it would be most improper,
and mostly I fear
it might allow Leona
some sort of satisfaction.
Leona says,
“Yes, Andrea chose the frame.
Lovely, isn’t it?”
And I do agree, but for now
I keep it to myself.
DIVIDED
The waves lash
against the ferry
and we are beat to and fro
in the sea, sometimes pushed
toward Murano and sometimes
toward Venice.
The sun sets and all blazes,
so that I cannot distinguish
which island is home.
Would it not have been easier
if Andrea had been a clod?
But part of me is somewhat drawn
to Venice, her grandeur
and estate. And Andrea
made me feel welcome,
even if his sister did not.
A NEW SUBJECT
Now more than ever I must show Luca
the work of my hands,
of my head, the pictures that flow
and bubble from inside of me,
but my fingers shake to sketch
anything today.
Suddenly my hand slicks across the page
like a bird in pursuit darts the sky.
I close my eyes and outline her face
and hair. I open my eyes to capture
the way Vanna sees beyond the window.
I remember the wonder with which
she beheld Venice and draw it into
Vanna’s smile.
Later when we discuss
the wedding preparations
and plan another voyage to Venice
and the Bembo palazzo, I do not grit
my teeth but instead study my sister.
I will memorize her face and the setting
around her, the gardens, the tables,
paintings, and cloths. I will sketch
this all for Luca. I will find less horror
now in traveling across the sea,
less discomfort in my shoes.
I will focus and not speak
out of turn, just capture the scene
for my canvas
and show it all, one day soon,
to my dear gaffer.
CREATION
I sneak down to the fornica.
Luca smiles as though
I had let the entire sun
into the room.
“What are you working on today?”
I ask him.
“I am not working right now,
but hush and do not tell your
uncle and brothers.”
“Dear Luca, I hate to tell you,
but there is something forming
out of the moile on your punty.”
“I know this, but when one
loves what he does as much
as I do, can it be called work?”
he says with a wink.
I want to throw my apron
at Luca then, but I understand
what he means.
“Creation can be a gift.”
“You are a very smart girl, Maria.”
APPRECIATION
Mother leaves me to sit
alone with Andrea,
my soon-to-be betrothed,
and I tug at my sleeve for lack
of what to say or do.
Vanna would be full
of topics. I force an awkward smile
and say,
“It is a beautiful day.”
“Yes, the sea appears to melt
into the sky this morning.”
Andrea’s words surprise me.
“My uncle says it is always
days like this that promise
to bring darkest rain clouds
by afternoon.” I want to stuff
my sleeve down my throat.
Can I speak of nothing but weather?
“Well, Ovid said,
‘Beauty is a fragile gift.’
Guess we best enjoy
the day while we can.
Shall we stroll the garden?”
Andrea takes my arm
and for once I feel
like a true lady,
the way I imagine
Vanna must feel
on most days.
And it is nice.
TWO SUITABLE SUITORS?
How is a girl to choose
between a green dress
and a blue?
One pleases your family,
the other pleases you.
One man appreciates beauty,
is kind, and fulfills your duty.
The other creates glass,
but what of the future if he knows no past?
To follow the head
or the heart,
this is the question
that rips me apart.
THE SKETCHBOOK
As soon as Vanna and Mother
set to the market,
when I am to study
the ducal lineage
alone in my chambers,
I hide the sketchbook
under my skirt and slip
out of my bedroom.
He doesn’t notice me at first.
And there is a moment
when I nearly turn to run.
It is as though all
motion stops like the stillness
right before
the howl of a rainstorm.
I feel as though
I could dash and escape,
as if underneath my feet
a path emerges wherein
I could leap
one way to the door
or the other toward Luca.
While I hesitate,
Luca turns round.
“Is that your sketchbook?”
I must then bring it forth.
My steps wobble
and he pries
the book from my clutch.
I retreat to the shadows
like a cockroach
scared of light.
Luca turns the pages slowly.
I have brought him only five drawings
from my new book.
He waves me over.
“This is your sister, no?
I never realized how beautiful
she is.” Luca’s eyes radiate in a way
I have never seen.
He breathes in deeply
as if to inhale the drawing.
Of course, he is looking at Vanna—
the curve of her face.
He cannot quite speak now,
all that emerges from his lips
is “Bella,” and his eyes, his silly
sparkling eyes, they never lift from the page.