The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [87]
`It's nothing,' she said haltingly. `It's very civilized to be on good terms with your ex. Sandro never did like bad blood or ill will. He likes things to be easy.'
Easy.
So now, at last, she knew the source of the distance. He had lived with Vittoria and been hurt. She had left him. And now she was back, what?
Where do I fit in?
She stayed for long moments at the table, nursing her glass of water, looking at the door through which Marta had left, through which Alessandro was shortly to come. She considered, as the shock drained away and anger replaced it, how she would confront him.
No. That's not the way. Not again.
With Stephen she had faced him out with what she knew, and he had left. This time she would learn the lessons of history. She had to assume Alessandro's innocence as the alternative was too horrible to contemplate - to be alone in a city which now felt alien to her, with a child and no job.
No. I will wait, and hope, and give him the benefit of the doubt.
She knew she was a coward. When he came in from the winter night she embraced him warmly. They ate dinner and talked animatedly of the child and the Carnevale to come. He seemed excited about something, hyper. Her heart chilled as she thought that Vittoria was the reason. In denial she took him to her bed and pleased him as much as she could. Only afterwards did she ask him one question, hating herself.
`Marta was here tonight. You just missed her. I thought you were going to be here by seven. What happened?'
His voice was thick with sleep. `I had to work late. That art theft at the Ca' D'Oro. It's dragging on for ever.'
You've been caught in a lie. Proof.
She turned uncomfortably, her bump ungainly, and shoved at the pillows. She did not want him to see the tears that ran into the linen. The child kicked her, reacting to her movement, and she cupped its form, crying for them both. She felt a touch to her back.
Alessandro murmured `I love you.'
He has never once said that before. And now it's too late.
CHAPTER 30
Carnevale
Carnevale. The Doge's Palace, that great confection, is en fete.The delicate, blanched facade hides the dark and ermetic chambers within.The edifice itself wears a mask. Costumed characters, garish and bright, tangle round the pillars of the white loggia like a gaudy ribbon. Above their heads, like a grey tooth in a peerless smile, sit the two discoloured pillars that stand out from their fellows. Legend has it that these two columns are permanently stained with the blood of the criminals that were hung and quartered there. The revellers do not think of this. They laugh and squawk like parrots at a bagpiper. Venice La Serenissima is, today, far from serene. Here a moon capers with a princess, there a Pierrot converses with an elephant. Today, a cat can look at a King.
By the bridge of the Riva degli Schiavone, a man and a woman hail a gondola. The man is dressed as Sandro Botticelli, with a close cap on his curling hair, and Renaissance robes. The woman seems as if she has stepped from his work, so closely does she resemble La Primavera. Her gilded hair is twisted about her cherub's face, and gold filaments snatch at the sun. Her hooded green eyes are the colour of a wine bottle, the pupils distended with promise. Her sprigged white dress catches in the wind and her escort hands her into the rocking boat with care - for she is heavily pregnant.
Leonora settled back in the cushions. She had decided that La Primavera was the obvious choice for her Carnevale costume; as Spring herself was pregnant with the coming Summer, Leonora could find comfort in the flowing robes. The dress was loose and airy, the cushions soft under her back. Her glass heart sat in the notch of her