The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [43]
Firstly, he felt a natural resistance to taking the path of his uncle and denouncing another man through the Lion's mouth. He had long thought it odd that in Dante's Divina Commedia - the book he read now as his bible - the lisping, hapless traitor that suffered the torments of the Inferno was called Ugolino, like his beloved dead uncle. Now he knew how fitting it was that his uncle shared a name with this unfortunate Florentine.
For my uncle was the worst kind of traitor; one who betrayed his family.
Betrayal of the State was but a small sin next to this.Which brought Corradino to the second reason.
Duparcniieur's words rang in his head: `What do you owe the kepublic, Corradino? She has enslaved you.'
It was true. He loved his work - lived it even, but he knew that only his skills kept him alive. If for any reason he ceased to be able to do his work, he would be lost. And they had done worse, much worse ...'Taken your family from you ... nearly all ...' Aye, that `nearly' was what stopped him betraying Duparcmieur. The third reason.
Leonora.
As the days turned to weeks of waiting - to the point where Corradino asked himself if he had dreamt all - he had the overriding desire to find out more of the Frenchman's plan. Was there a way he could begin a life overseas with Leonora? She whom he loved as he had loved no one else since his own mother?
Over the weeks his fears receded and were replaced. He now felt a hunger, an impatience to be contacted. Would the summons ever come? Had the Frenchman been denounced by another - perhaps Baccia - and even now lay tortured, dying, dead?
Yesternight, though, the summons had come at last. Giacomo, with the air of one who knew nothing beyond his words, had passed on a message that Corradino was to meet Maestro Domenico of the Old Theatre at noon of the next day. Corradino had given a disinterested nod while his stomach lurched. He excused himself, went outside, and vomited into the canal.
Here, now, at the Teatro Vecchio, the maze of stairs and corridors had brought him to this curtain. He knew not where it led, only that once he drew its folds aside, there could be no return.
Or I could leave now.
In tones hoarse as a crow, he spoke the name, and there was silence. With a mixture of disappointment and relief he wondered if there were no one there. But those accents he remembered so well spoke from beyond the arras.
`Si. Entrate.'
With a shaking hand, Corradino drew the heavy drape aside and entered into he knew not what. Like the Dante of his book - of his father's book - he entered on a new path, with a new guide, midway through the journey of his life. He knew naught of where the road would lead, or the one who would lead him.
`So, you have come, Corradino.'
Corradino's ready reply died on his lips. He could not see the one who spoke, only the spectacle below.
He was standing in a box-like extrusion above a dark and cavernous space. But at the fore of the space was a shining arc of gold, a baroque riot of giltwork crowning a stage that was brilliant with the light of a thousand candles. On the stage were characters - such characters! Not the pantomime costumes of the Commedia dell'Arte, or the gaudy garb of the Carnevale, but players dressed in cloth of gold, jewels, and tissue of silver. One such princess stood with the company grouped around her in the attitude of an antique painting, and she sang with such passing beauty that Corradino all but forgot his fear and trouble. But this was not the holy beauty of the Pieta choir, but a secular, joyful song in a language he did not know
`Monteverdi,' said Duparcmieur's voice. `This is an aria from L'incoronazione di Poppea. Claudio was