The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [46]
Marta, her landlady, came round now and again, on little matters to do with the house, and had begun to stay for a glass of wine. She had become a tentative friend, and once brought round a fragrant Venetian stew of fish and beans in a warm stone pot. As the two women shared the feast and a bottle of wine, it was Marta who told Leonora the secret to Venetian cooking. `Simplicity,' she said briefly. `Here we have a saying: "non piu di cinque". Never more than five.Venetians say that you should not use more ingredients than you have fingers of one hand.'
Leonora nodded but her thoughts were elsewhere. She steeled herself not to ask about Alessandro.
Alessandro.
She told herself, as the flat took shape, and as her work improved at the fornace, that she was happy. She was a glassblower. She lived in this gem of a flat in this jewel of a city. But on the Saturday that she found the final piece to complete her home, she was brought face to face with the truth.
She had gone to a shop she knew, behind the Chiesa San Giorgio by the Accademia Bridge, to find something to hang in the empty space above her bed. It was there, hanging on the back wall, behind the armoires and busts and lampshades - an icon of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. The Virgin held the burning heart in her hands, her face serene, the heart a visceral beating red against the cerulean cloak. Leonora bought it at once, took it home and hung it. Perfect. Then she understood.
My heart burns too.
It was one kiss, and he had never called her, never come round in four weeks. On subsequent, necessary trips to the Police Station she had, as before, seen a new officer each time. Yet she yearned for Alessandro, even to catch a glimpse of him. Leonora had never read Dante but recalled one of his lines (from - of all things - Hannibal) `He ate that burning heart out of her hand.' Another Beatrice, namesake of Dante's great love, had spoken of eating a man's heart in the marketplace. Leonora felt the description to be apt - she felt, in a muddle of Dante and Shakespeare, that those poets had spoken of exactly how she felt - that she had eaten a burning heart which was now lodged in her chest. She felt none of the serenity of the Blessed Virgin. She wanted Alessandro, pure and simple. She thought her heart had cooled and set for ever after Stephen, hard and cold like the glass heart she wore.
But no, for even this heart that I wear, after four hundred years, would be melted again if I placed it in the fire.
And then, into her completed house, he came. That same Saturday, in the evening, an unfamiliar rasping brought her out of her reverie. She realized it was her own doorbell, and opened her door to Alessandro, smiling, brandishing her work permit, her residence permit and a bottle of Valpolicella. He made no reference to his absence, but came characteristically straight to the point.
`Shall we get some dinner? I know somewhere you'd like.'
Leonora felt shocked, and breathless. Vanity made her grateful that she was at least in the right clothes - she had put on a white crochet dress for the heat of the day. Determined not to be won over immediately she raised a brow. `Another cousin?'
He laughed. `Actually, yes.'
She looked carefully at him. He proffered her white permits like a flag of peace.
They walked abreast through the narrow calli to the trattoria, neither one ahead or behind. Their knuckles grazed one another's and before Leonora could register the pleasurable shock of the touch she felt her fingers clasped firmly in his warm hand. Since childhood, when her hand had been held, whether by her mother or later Stephen, Leonora had felt awkward - always waiting for the moment when she could comfortably let go without giving offence. Now, for the first time, she let this virtual stranger hold her hand in comfort, only breaking away as they arrived at the trattoria and began to weave through the