Sisters of Glass (2 page)

She cried when I showed her the drawing.

I started to tear apart the page.

“I’m sorry, Vanna.

I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Stop! Give me that.”

She ran downstairs to find

Marino and Paolo and Mother.

I ran after her, but of course she

could surpass me

without losing a breath.

I tumbled down the stairs

as the tears slipped down my cheeks.

Everyone walled around me.

“I am sorry. I meant it to be nice.”

My tears turned to sobs.

Mother stroked my head.

“Look at me, Maria. I wish

your father could have seen this.”

She hugged me closer

than she had in a year.

“But then, he always said

you were more of an artist

than a cristallo chef.”

The next day Marino

presented me

my first sketchbook.

HOW TO BEGIN?

A large sheet of white,

pen and brown ink in hand—

my mind deserted me.

I shivered in summer sunlight.

Mother relieved me

of my morning chores

so that I could practice sketching,

and my hand cramped up.

Giovanna skipped back

into our room to grab

her second pair of work gloves.

I stared at her, hoping

she would sense my distress

and offer a light amidst my fog,

a beacon to save my ship

the rocky shore.

She scurried to leave

without an eye in my direction.

I squawked, “Giovanna, come here.”

“What, Maria? Mother expects me,”

she said as she swirled swanlike

over to where I perched on my bed.

“You have not drawn anything

this whole morning?”

“It is not for lack of will.

I can’t think what to draw.

I am a failure.

I must not be an artist after all.”

A few tears splattered my paper.

“No, no.” Vanna squeezed my hand.

“You are thinking too much.

Just draw what you see,

what is around you,

and how it makes you feel,

just like you drew me.”

She brushed her finger

over my lips and cheeks

in the shape of a smile.

“And be joyful as you do it.

Father always said,

‘A sad gaffer produces gloomy glass,

whereas a happy one creates crystal.’ ”

“I think you are the artist, Vanna.”

“No, I am many things, but not that.”

And my sister streamed off,

a wake of notes in her trail.

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them

the room tripled in size.

I drew my sister’s bed, her vanity.

I inked her painting a smile across my face.

Before the afternoon I completed

eight sketches, each one more improved

than the last. I showed Vanna my work.

“Bella,”
she said.

I crammed my first sketchbook with joy.

Not all drawings of happy subjects,

but all penned in gratitude

and excitement—

my brothers at work,

the cathedral, a fisherman

I gleaned through the window,

our maid Carlotta rolling out dough,

the
conciatore
preparing our frit,

Mother at her dressing table,

Giovanna’s brush and comb

from her perspective,

Paolo blowing his glass art;

I recorded it all.

WHY I LOVE GLASS

Giovanna loves glass

like she loves singing,

because like a melody

she enhances its beauty

with her touch.

Marino loves glass

because his investment

brings prosperity and growth.

As with a gardener,

his well-managed, well-tended furnace

produces great fruit.

Paolo creates himself

in each goblet, beaker, bowl

he blows. He cannot really see

himself without his reflection

in the glass’s eye.

Uncle Giova knows nothing

but glass; it is his past, present,

and future—the fornica

is his home.

I love glass

because I love my father.

After Father died

I worked like a nun

to prepare his sacred batches.

My father stood beside me;

his specter guided my hand.

“Maria, not too much manganese.”

After we lost him,

I turned to glass.

Mother turned away from it.

She shrouded goblets and mirrors;

we drank from clay.

At first I did not understand.

But one day, thinking about my father,

I held up a mirror

and saw my mother’s eyes.

RESTRICTED

At fifteen all doors

began to lock around me.

I could hear the turning keys.

I pounded on the walls.

No one told me why

I had to stay inside my room.

Had I mistreated the glass

I so loved? No.

What had I done?

Giovanna finally explained,

“You must be a lady

if you hope to marry a senator.”

She eyed me then as never before,

like men I witnessed about to duel.

“If it is
possible
for you to be a lady.

And if not, well then perhaps …”

Vanna’s eyes shifted back

to the sister I knew.

“Maria, is it not enough

that Father loved you best?”

But before her tears

she turned away.

For the past several months

I have been treated

more delicately

than the Doge’s chandelier.

My complexion

to remain powder white, hands smooth

and clean, no ink tainting my nails.

My virtue must be as the purest cristallo;

I can go nowhere unchaperoned.

All the while my sister’s silent sorrow

thrusts glass shards into my heart.

GIOVANNA

My sister’s long golden locks

glimmer in sunlight;

how her crown of hair

would jewel in Venice

away from Murano’s fire and ash.

She labors morning and night

to brush away this island’s soot.

When I was fourteen and Vanna

was fifteen, we decided to play

a trick on our older brothers,

Marino and Paolo.

We bound each other’s hands,

moaned as though we had burned

ourselves stoking the furnace.

Marino’s tan turned to salt.

He said, “You must stay inside

and apply the treatment.”

Paolo plugged his nose.

The treatment, a muddy goop

our maid Carlotta prepares,

consists primarily of dung.

But
it salves wounds.

As soon as the boys set to their tasks,

Giovanna declared,

“The day is too beautiful to stay inside,”

and whisked me away faster than a fierce gale

fuels clouds through the sky.

Murano’s streets curve and twist

like eels. We might have been

lost in the smoke of all the fornicas.

But the sun owned Murano

that day, the sky colored like the sea,

no rain in view. And Vanna

seemed to know where she was going.

I might have been afraid we would

get in trouble for being out,

two girls alone, but none seemed to notice.

Merchants bartered glass to boatmen.

Citizens swam through the streets

with great haste, as though they fled from fire.

Vanna serpentined me

down an alley past the cathedral

to a small shop. Inside, a painting

of Venice’s Grand Canal

hung quietly on the wall.

Meticulous in its detail,

but it somehow felt dead.

The painting celebrated the holy day

Corpus Christi and the procession

through the Piazza San Marco,

but it was as though the painter

felt not the joy of his subject

nor the joy of his creation.

Giovanna tugged my arm.

“They have charcoal and red chalk,

pink paper, just like the painters use.

I thought you might like—”

I cut her off. “I have heard of these,

but I have no coin.”

She pulled a bolognini from her sleeve.

I whispered, “Where did you get that?

We will be robbed.”

Vanna shook her head.

“You worry too much, Maria.

Select what you like.

I will manage the rest.”

I hugged her tight enough to crack

her bones. “I’ll pay you back.”

She smiled. “Yes, you will.”

NOT MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER

I spend my days now

with a woman I do not understand.

It is as though Mother speaks French.

She presents to me a carved wooden box

painted with fine water lilies.

I turn it around in the light.

“This is exquisite,” I say.

“Thank you, Mother.

I will store my inks and quills

in here!” I move to kiss her cheek.

Mother waves me away.

She says, “No, open it up.

The gift is inside.”

A silver brush and comb,

far more expensive than any

Giovanna has owned,

lie like weapons

in the velvet-lined box.

“Vanna will love these.”

I say aloud what I meant

to keep in my head.

Mother squawks at me

like an angry goose.

“No. They are for you.

They were my grandmother’s.

You alone will use them

to brush your hair

one hundred times each day.”

Oh, Vanna will hate me if she sees these.

This brush and comb belong to her

like limbs extending from her wrist.

Her name should be engraved

on the handles.

The box alone feels like mine.

Dear Lord, why did Father

disturb tradition?

“Mother, this is better suited

for Vanna,” I begin,

but like my sister

Mother’s ears sew closed to my voice.

She directs me from her room.

If Father were here,

at least I could speak to him

about all of this.

Mother is like Murano’s stone wall,

impenetrable.

I know not

how to reason with stone,

only to crush it,

and I cannot do that.

THE BRUSH-OFF

I sneak the box into our room

and nestle it behind my dresses.

How I will stroke my hair

one hundred times

without Giovanna noticing,

I cannot fathom!

Giovanna wakes me

just as the sun eases

above the sea.

She holds the painted box.

“Where did you get this?”

“It is a gift for you from Mother.

I was supposed to hide it from you.”

Giovanna looks as though

she might sing.

“I must thank her right away.

The brush and comb set

is so beautiful, exquisitely

beautiful!”

“No.” I grab her arm.

“I don’t understand.”

She shakes her head.

“Well, you see—” I begin.

“No, I don’t. Tell the truth.

On the Virgin Mary’s soul,

is the brush set yours or mine?”

Giovanna’s eyes slay me.

I look down. “They are mine.”

But then quickly add,

“But they should be yours.

I give them to you.”

“No.” Giovanna sinks.

“You cannot do that.”

She squares herself away from me,

sets the box on my dresser,

and her voice falls dumb.

SECRET SKETCHINGS

Drawing emotional pictures

is whimsical child’s play;

I am to pack my pencils, inks,

and tablets away.

All the scenes of craftsmen

in the rain, furnace flames,

the canal, cathedral, glass boats,

and portraits of my family

that Mother so adored

she tucks under her bed

as though she buries me

beneath her mattress.

“I thought it was customary

for a girl to have talent?”

I ask Mother as she peels

the last sketchbook she can find

from my arms.

“No, Maria,” Mother corrects.

“You should have an amusement.

So, yes, you shall say that you draw,

and draw the nobleman in his glory

or other lovely things like flowers,

but none of this art

that looks like a man might have drawn it.”

PAOLO AND THE COURTESAN

Across the Grand Canal

on the weedy side of Murano,

Father said the mermaidens

reign. Beautiful temptresses

who cast out golden nets

and snare many fish.

Father never swam there,

but Uncle Giova

still fills his pockets

with glass bracelets

and comes home after moonrise

more than once a week.

Once my uncle left

a set of jade combs

on Giovanna’s dresser.

Another morning

I found a sketchbook

filled with drawings

of ladies in fine attire

looking into mirrors.

Masterful drawings

in terms of light

and perspective.

I learned to draw

in spatial dimensions

studying this book.

“Who drew these?”

I asked Uncle.

He whispered in my ear,

“A beautiful woman.”

I nodded.

“A siren of the sea.”

My ears identify the click

of Paolo’s boots as dawn blinks