The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [97]
Not if I do this last thing. Not if I am granted absolution.
With a new urgency he doubled back as he had planned and took the narrow bridges and winding alleys or caller that led back to the Riva degli Schiavoni. Here and there shrines were set into the corners of the houses - well-tended flames burned and illumined the face of the Virgin.
I dare not look in her eyes, not yet.
At last the lights of the Orphanage at the Ospedale della Pieta drew near and as he saw the candlelight warmth he heard too the music of the viols.
Perhaps it is she that plays - I wish it were so - but I will never know.
He passed the grille without a glance inside and banged on the door. As the maid approached with a candle he did not wait for her inquisition before hissing: `Padre Tommaso - subito!' He knew the maid - a surly, taciturn wench who delighted in being obstructive, but tonight his voice carried such urgency that even she turned at once and soon the priest came.
`Signore?'
Corradino opened his cloak and found the leather gourd of French gold. Into the bag he tucked the vellum notebook, so she would know how it had been and one day, perhaps, forgive him. He took a swift glance around the dim alley - no, no-one could have drawn close enough to see him.
They must not know she has the book.
In a voice too low for any but the priest to hear he said: `Padre, I give you this money for the care of the orphans of the Pieta.' The mask changed Corradino's voice as he had intended. The priest made as if to take the bag with the usual formula of thanks, but Corradino held it back until the father was forced to meet his eyes. FatherTommaso alone must know him for who he was. `For the orphans,' said Corradino again, with emphasis.
Recognition reached the priest at last. He turned over the hand that held the bag and looked closely at the fingertips - smooth with no prints. He began to speak but the eyes in the mask flashed a warning. Changing his mind the father said, `I will make sure they receive it,' and then, as if he knew; `may God bless you. 'A warm hand and a cold one clasped for an instant and the door was closed.
Corradino continued on, he knew not where, until he was well away from the Orphanage.
Then, finally, he removed his mask.
Shall I walk on till they find me? How will it be done?
At once, he knew where he should go. The night darkened as he passed through the streets, the canals whispering goodbye as they splashed the calli, and now at last Corradino could hear footsteps behind keeping pace. At last he reached the Calle della Morta - the street of death - and stopped. The footsteps stopped too. Corradino faced the water and, without turning, said, `Will Leonora be safe?'
The pause seemed interminable - splash, splash - then a voice as dry as dust replied.
`Yes. You have the word of The Ten.'
Corradino breathed relief and waited for the final act.
As the knife entered his back he felt the pain a moment after the recognition had already made him smile. The subtlety, the clarity with which the blade insinuated itself between his ribs could only mean one thing. He started to laugh. Here was the poetry, the irony he had searched for on the dock. What an idiot, romanticizing himself, supposing himself a hero in the drama and pathos of his final sacrifice. All the time it was they who had planned the final act with such a sense of theatre, of what was fitting, an amusing Carnevale exit. A Venetian exit. They had used a glass dagger - Murano glass.
Most likely one of my own making.
He laughed harder with the last of his breath. He felt the assassin's final twist of the blade to snap handle from haft, felt his skin close behind the blade to leave no more