The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [1]
I know I will never touch the glass again.
As he entered the Merceria dell'Orologio the market traders were packing away their pitches for the night. Corradino passed a glass-seller, with his wares ranked jewel-like on his stall. In his mind's eye the goblets and trinkets began to glow rosily and their shapes began to shift - he could almost feel the heat of the furnace again, and smell the sulphur and silica. Since childhood such sights and smells had always reassured him. Now the memory seemed a premonition of hellfires. For was hell not where traitors were placed? The Florentine, Dante, was clear on the subject. Would Corradino - like Brutus and Cassius and Judas - be devoured by Lucifer, the Devil's tears mingling with his blood as he was ripped asunder? Or perhaps, like the traitors that had betrayed their families, he would be encased for all eternity in `... un lago the per gelo avea di vetro e non d'acqua sembiante ... a lake that, frozen fast, had lost the look of water and seemed glass' Corradino recalled the words of the poet and almost smiled.Yes, a fitting punishment - glass had been his life, why not his death also?
Not if I do this last thing. Not if I am granted absolution.
With a new urgency he doubled back as he had planned and took the narrow bridges and winding alleys or calles that led back to the Riva degli Schiavone. Here and there shrines were set into the corners of the houses - welltended flames burned and illumined the face of the Virgin.
I dare not look in her eyes, not yet.
At last the lights of the Orphanage at the Ospedale della Pieta drew near and as he saw the candlelight warmth he heard too the music of the viols.
Perhaps it is she that plays - I wish it were so - but I will never know.
He passed the grille without a glance inside and banged on the door. As the maid approached with a candle he did not wait for her inquisition before hissing: `Padre Tommaso - subito!' He knew the maid - a surly, taciturn wench who delighted in being obstructive, but tonight his voice carried such urgency that even she turned at once and soon the priest came.
`Signore?'
Corradino opened his cloak and found the leather gourd of French gold. Into the bag he tucked the vellum notebook, so she would know how it had been and one day, perhaps, forgive him. He took a swift glance around the dim alley - no, no-one could have drawn close enough to see him. .
They must not know she has the book.
In a voice too low for any but the priest to hear he said: `Padre, I give you this money for the care of the orphans of the Pieta' The mask changed Corradino's voice as he had intended. The priest made as if to take the bag with the usual formula of thanks, but Corradino held it back until the father was forced to meet his eyes. FatherTommaso alone must know him for who he was. `For the orphans,' said Corradino again, with emphasis.
Recognition reached the priest at last. He turned over the hand that held the bag and looked closely at the fingertips - smooth with no prints. He began to speak but the eyes in the mask flashed a warning. Changing his mind the father said, `I will make sure they receive it,' and then, as if he knew; `may God bless you. 'A warm hand and a cold one clasped for an instant and the door was closed.
Corradino continued on, he knew not where, until he was well away from the Orphanage.
Then, finally, he removed his mask.
Shall I walk on till they find ine? How will it be done?
At once, he knew where he should go. The night darkened as he passed through the streets, the canals whispering goodbye as they splashed the calli, and now at last Corradino could hear footsteps behind keeping pace. At last he reached the Calle della Morte - the street