The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [58]
Giacomo took up his ancient viol instead and his bow and fingers, unbidden, found a melancholy folk song of the Veneto which matched his mood. He felt a foreboding, a heaviness of heart which he could not explain. It was this feeling that had made him go to the window repeatedly since he had returned from the fornace.
So the muffled knock at the door when it came did not surprise him, as he had felt expectant all evening. As he set down his viol carefully on the trestle, he had a horrid fancy that he would be opening the door to Death itself, come at last to claim him. But the figure who stood there was not Death. It was Corradino.
They kissed each other heartily, although Giacomo thought at once that his friend looked agitated. Once inside he could not seem to sit or stand, and waved away the offer of wine, before accepting and downing the cup in one swallow.
`Corradino, what ails you? Have you a fever? Is it the mercury?' For Corradino had suffered much from a hacking cough of late - a sign which could indicate a corruption of the lungs from the mercury used to silver the mirrors. Only last week Giacomo had insisted that his friend place four peppercorns under his tongue to ward off the lung sickness - like all Venetians Giacomo had an enormous respect for the mysterious spices of the east. But even spices could not prevent mercury poisoning. The silver devil brought most of the glassblowers to their deaths - their art consumed them in the end. Corradino shook his head fervently at Giacomo's diagnosis, but his eyes burned in his head. `I came to ...' he began, and stopped abruptly.
Giacomo grabbed Corradino's arm and pulled him down on the trestle beside him. `Compose yourself, Corradino mio. What is it you would say? Are you in trouble?'
Corradino laughed, but shook his head again. `I came to say ... I know not what ... I want you to know ... there is so much I cannot tell you!' He took a breath. `I wanted to tell you that I owe you everything, that you are a father to me, that you saved my life over and again, that I can't ever repay you, and that, whatever may befall me, I wish you to try to think well of me.' He clasped the old man's hands fervently. `Promise me this - that you will try to think well of me.'
`Corradino, I will always think well of you. What is this coil?'
`One more thing. If you should see Leonora, if you should ever see her, tell her that I have always loved her, and love her still.'
`Corradino ...'
`Promise!'
`I promise, but you must tell me what you mean by all this. What has become of you tonight? What are you planning?'
Corradino reacted instantly. `I am planning nothing. Nothing. I ...' he laughed and dropped his head into his hands, his fingers parting the dark curls. Then, in more normal tones he said, `Forgive me. It is some mood, some fancy. Dark humours come from the gibbous moon, which shines tonight.'
He motioned toward the window, and Giacomo saw, sure enough, that the moon was almost full, and had a strange hue. Perhaps that accounted for his own melancholy. `Aye, I felt somewhat of the same mind myself. Come, let's drink this folly away.'
Corradino waved away the wine jug. `I must go. But remember all I said.'
Giacomo shrugged. `I will. But I'll see you at the fornace tomorrow.'
'Aye, tomorrow. I'll see you then.'
The hug was fervent and prolonged. Then Corradino was gone, and Giacomo was once again alone. As he stared out into the night, he wondered if he had really seen tears shining in his friend's eyes as he turned away. Despite the talk of tomorrow, the whole interview had the manner of a leavetaking.
A leavetaking indeed. When Corradino did not arrive at the.fornace in the morning, Giacomo's