The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [23]
This was not to be.The slow workings ofVenetian administration meant that this was her sixth visit in four weeks. She had filled in form after form, all with incomprehensible names or numbers. She had produced every single paper or certificate that had documented her life, from birth certificate to driving licence. And each time she had dealt with a different policeman, recounting her tale from the beginning, dealing with reactions that ran the gamut from frank incredulity to plain indifference. This English Signorina had somehow been given an apprenticeship with the maestri on Murano, and now needed a living permit and a work permit. Each official had a different take on her plight.
The Signorina must have a rental address in Venice, then after she had attained her living permit, or permesso di sog- giorno, she would then apply for the permesso di lavoro, or work permit. No, said another, she must be given her permesso di lavoro first, then have it ratified by her employer, then she would qualify to take rental quarters in the sestiere, then she could apply for a permesso di sogiorno.
I want to scream.
Nora's manner had metamorphosed over these visits from the friendly, slightly ignorant blonde demeanour that she had found all her life to work well with officialdom, to the hard-nosed, demanding manner of a harridan. The progress of her application, however, had stayed exactly the same, retaining its state of complete inertia.
I have a recurring dream where I'm floating underwater in the lagoon, gasping for breath, but unable to swim to the surface because I'm bound with reams and reams of red tape.
Today, a peerless autumn day, she entered the door of the police station with steely determination, her features brittle with counterfeit smiles.
I have been in Venice for a full month. I need to get this sorted.
The last month had passed with that strange elasticity which characterizes significant periods of life. On the one hand, the time had slipped by with a rapidity which surprised Nora. On the other, she could not believe that it was only four weeks ago that she had been living at Belmont, amid the detritus of her dead marriage. She had worked hard at the furnaces from that first Monday, when she had entered the fornace with an air of one going to school for the first time. She had bound her hair in a scarf and worn her oldest jeans in an effort to blend in as much as possible. It had not worked. The heat was such that in the space of half an hour she had shed the scarf and was working in jeans, bare feet and a vest top, to predictable comments from the others.
But all in all, Nora's first day at the fornace was both exhausting and exhilarating. Most of the men were guardedly friendly, in a manner which made her suspect that they had been given instruction by Adelino. Two of the younger glassblowers, a goodlooking pair who seemed to be somewhat of a double act, were friendly and helpful and watched her progress with dark, appraising eyes. She left when the others did, congratulating herself on having made no major mistakes that day, and was gratified when her two young colleagues asked her to come for a drink with the others. Adelino was not with them, but thinking herself safe in numbers Nora followed gratefully along the Fondamenta Manin to a warmly-lit welcoming bar. The maestri were clearly regulars, as their `usual' ten Peroni beers sat ready on the bar like the green bottles of the song. Nora collapsed on the bar stool chivalrously proffered by Roberto and rolled her head around on her aching neck. She heard some of the gathered men joking about offering her a massage and she smiled along.
I must get used to barracking and locker-room jokes; I must not be phased by it all. This is a man's world - always has been - and I have to learn to fit in. No princess behaviour.
She pressed the cold bottle of Peroni to a forehead still hot and flushed from the furnace's kiss, and felt the welcome