The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [6]
The couple went to Florence for their honeymoon at Elinor's suggestion. Nora was enchanted by Italy, Stephen less so.
Perhaps I should have sensed something wasn't right, even then.
She now remembered that Stephen detested the traffic and tourism of Florence. He resented her speaking to the locals in her hard-learnt but fluent Italian. It was as if he resented her heritage - felt threatened. In the Uffizi he himself braided her hair again after his brief, uncharacteristic moment of romance in front of the Botticelli. He said that her blondeness attracted too much unwanted attention in the street. Yet even with her hair bound she collected admiring glances from the immaculately dressed young men who hunted in designer-suited packs of five or ten, raising their sunglasses and whistling.
It was Stephen, too, who had resisted her suggestion to call herself Leonora again - too fancy, he said, too Mills and Boon. She had kept the name Manin for her work, as she exhibited her glassware in a small way in some London Galleries. Her chequebook and cashcards, however, said Carey.
Nora wondered if Stephen had only accepted Nora Manin because it sounded as if it could be English. Few people identified Manin as an Italian name, with no giveaway vowel at the end.
Is it because Stephen resented my `Italian-ness' that I am anxious to embrace it so wholeheartedly, now he is gone?
Nora turned from the luggage and searched in her makeup bag for her talisman. Among the mascara wands and bright palettes of colour she found what she was looking for. She held the glass heart in her hand, marvelling at its iridescence. It seemed to capture the light of the bathroom's fluorescent tube and hold it within itself. She threaded a blue hair ribbon through the hole in its crease and tied it round her neck. Over the last horrible months it had become her rosary, her touchstone for all the hopes of the future. She would hold it tight as she cried at those 4am wakings and tell herself if she could only get to Venice, everything would be alright.
The second part of her plan she did not want to think about yet - she had told no-one, and could barely even say it to herself as it sounded such a ridiculous, fanciful notion. `I am going to Venice to work as a glassblower. It is my birthright' She spoke to her reflection, aloud, clearly and defiantly. She heard the words, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the small hours, and cringed. But in determination, she clasped the heart tighter and looked again at her reflection. She thought she looked a little more courageous and felt cheered.
CHAPTER 3
Corradino's Heart
There were letters cut into the stone.
The words on the plaque which adorned the Orphanage of the Pieta were thrown into sharp relief by the midday sun. Corradino's fingers scored the grooves of the inscription. He knew well what it said;
`Fulmine it Signor Iddio maledetione e scomuniche ... May the Lord God strike with curses and excommunications all those who send or permit their sons and daughters - whether legitimate or natural - to be sent to this hospital of the Pieta, having the means and ability to bring them up.
Did you read these words, Nunzio dei Vescovi, you old bastard? Seven years ago to this day, when you abandoned your only grandchild here? Did you feel the guilt pressing on your heart? Did you look over your shoulder in fear of the Lord God and the Pope as you slunk home to your palazzo and your coffers of gold?
Corradino looked down at the worn step and pictured the newborn girl swaddled there, still slick with birthblood. Birthblood and deathblood, for her mother had died on her childbed. Corradino clenched his fists till the nails bit.
I do not want to think of Angelina.
He turned