The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [42]
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