The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [7]
I am a master. No-one can make the glass sing like I do. I an the best glassblower in the world. I hear the water reply; yes, but that is why the French want you and no-one else.
He looked across the lagoon to San Giorgio Maggiore, and watched the spice boats pass the unfinished church of Santa Maria della Salute. The rich reds and yellows of the spices and the dark hues of the merchants' skins were framed by the clean white stones of the vast structure. These were all sights that he relished. Gondolas sliced the water and courtesans rode bare-breasted and wanton in their Carnevale finery. Corradino admired not their flesh but the silk of their gowns. The colour and form of the falling material as it caught the sun. The rainbow of hues like the inside of an oyster. He watched for a while, enjoying one of his rare moments of freedom from the foundry, from the fornace, from Murano. He admired the axe shaped prow of the gondola, with the six branches to denote the six sestiere or regions of the city. The city he loved. The city he was leaving tomorrow. He said the names over to himself, rolling the words on his tongue like a poem or a prayer.
Cannaregio, Dorsoduro, Castello, Santa Croce, San Polo and San Marco.
In time the wash of the gondola reached him, slapping gently against the mossy marble of the dock, and brought him to himself. He must not tarry too long.
I have a present for her.
Corradino ducked down the calle at the side of the church of Santa Maria della Pieta which adjoined the Orphanage. He peered through the ornamental grille that allowed passersby to see through to the cool darkness within. He could see a group of the orphan girls with their viols and violoncellos, with their sheet music. Seated at the edge he could see her blonde head bobbing as she talked to her friends. He saw, too, the head of Father Tommaso at the front, tonsured by nature, instructing a group that stood ready to sing. Now was his moment.
With his indifferent voice echoing in the calle, Corradino began to sing a well known tune used by meat traders or pastry sellers to attract buyers to their wares. The words, however, were changed, so that only one person would know him for who he was, and she, alone, would come to him:
`Leonora mia, bo bo bo,
Leonora mia, bo bo bo.'
Soon she was there at the grille, her little fingers curled through the ornamental panel to touch his. `Boon giorno Leonora.!
'Buon giorno Signore:
`Leonora, I told you that you can call me Papa!
'Si Signore.'
But she smiled. He loved her sense of humour and the way she had become familiar enough with him to take liberties. He supposed she was growing up - soon she would be a practised coquette of marriageable age.
`Did you bring me a present?ff
'Well, now, let's see. Perhaps you can tell me how old you are today?'
More little digits pushed through the grille. Five, six, seven. `Seven:
`That's right. And haven't I always given you presents on your name day?'
`Always:
`Well, let's hope I haven't forgotten it.' He made a pantomime of searching through his smock and all his jerkin pockets. At last he reached behind his ear and pulled out the glass heart. With relief he saw his measurements were correct as he pushed the gem easily through the grille and heard Leonora gasp as it fell into her hand. She turned it over on her little palm to admire the captured light.
`Is it magic?' she asked.
`Yes. A special sort. Come closer and I'll explain.'
Leonora pressed her face to the grille. The sun