Sisters of Glass (3 page)

through the window.

He wears last night’s cloak.

Sea perfume wafts up the stairs

like the scent of baking bread,

the same aroma flavoring

the sketchbook

Uncle bestowed upon me.

Paolo arrives late to the furnace,

and when he sets to leave before

dusk, Marino stomps after him.

“Your goblets today are shoddy.”

They bicker like boatmen

about to draw swords,

loud voices in the street

for all the neighborhood ears.

Paolo shoves his pontil

into Marino’s hands.

“Do it yourself, then.”

Paolo steers our gondola

quickly toward the weeds,

vanishes into the smoke

and fog for three days.

Our furnace produces

no glass in Paolo’s absence;

the orders for English betrothal goblets

pile up like debtor’s notes.

Paolo returns, biretta in hand,

and kneels before Mother’s tears.

He kisses her glove.

“I am sorry, Mother, forgive me,

but this is too much alone.

Gaffing cannot be all that I do.”

“I know, my son.”

She pats his head.

“I will speak with Marino.”

LEARNING TO BE A LADY

is like learning

to live within a shell,

to be a crustacean encased

in a small white

uncomfortable world.

You hear the ocean

whirl about you

but feel not the wet

nor ride the wave

nor see the sun.

Bedded on the sand,

protected from harm

with the other fair dainty shells,

all safely collected

so no damage be done

to precious contents.

I cannot venture outside my cage,

cannot dirty my gloves.

This was not how Father

raised me, some fragile figurine

teetering on the ledge—

how can this be his greatest

wish for me?

Did he not think me capable of more?

My cheeks red as a fornica,

I fall to my knees.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,

forgive me my insolence and disrespect.

I do not mean to be so ungrateful.

Giovanna would shear her head

to be in my position. I am blessed

to be of such good fortune.”

MY INSOLENCE STARVES MY FAMILY

Marino’s hands wring tightly

at the supper table;

he never says it,

but I know an influx of ducats

would fuel the second furnace

and hire additional hands.

If I marry well, then Marino

may take a wife

and acquire a large dowry

for our family.

I will suck in my ribs

while Mother bodices me

into my corset.

I will see my pinching shoes as fins.

I announce at the table,

“We shall settle on my proper

suitor, all of us, before

I turn sixteen.”

Mother pushes back her

plate and beaker.

“We have much work ahead.”

TRIAL BY FIRE: FIRST SUITOR

“You shall learn by doing,”

Mother determines, “for we have

precious little time.

The Barovier name was worth

a lot more a few years ago.”

Traditionally girls do not meet

with men. Fathers arrange

marriages, or heads of families do,

but Marino and Uncle

are more frenzied than netted sharks,

and Mother and I cannot leave Murano

to attend parties and meet noble ladies

with eligible sons, so we break

tradition and invite bachelors

approved by my brothers

into our home to visit Mother and me.

Fastened into a puffy-sleeved

blue velvet gown,

a tiara smashed into my skull,

I feel costumed into noble

clothes like I should sport

a carnival mask.

I peer out the window;

the gondola he arrives in

nearly capsizes

when the rotund man exits it.

“Giovanna, come see,” I say,

and then remember

she refuses to talk to me.

I clutch the wall as I descend

the stairs so I do not topple

in these tall shoes.

I feel like I ate old fish,

know immediately

from his foul breath

that I cannot marry this man.

He coughs and squints

with an upturned nose.

“How old is she?”

Mother offers,

“Would you like to come in

and rest your feet, Signore Debratto?”

He stomps his cane.

“Her! How old is she?”

His face reddens from the exertion.

“I am fifteen, sir,” I say.

Mother bites her lip; apparently

I was not to speak.

But since I already spilled the tea,

I ask him, “How old are you?”

Signore Debratto huffs and grumbles.

“Well, I told your son I needed

a
young
wife,” he says to Mother.

He lifts his cane and raises my hair

to inspect behind my ears.

I hide behind my mother.

“Well, since she is so old,

I’ll expect a larger dowry.”

Signore Debratto wobbles in our doorway.

“I believe you may be right, sir.

Maria may be too mature for your tastes.”

Mother clasps my hand

and directs me upstairs

as our maid Carlotta

swiftly locks the door

behind my first suitor.

“Did he have a stench

about him?” Mother asks.

“Indeed,” I say, and

we collapse in laughter,

and Mother feels

like a friend

for the first time.

GIOVANNA’S SONGS

disappear like raindrops

into the sea. Only sad notes

sob against her pillow at night.

This morning I want to say,

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

or “Can I help you shine

that bowl?” I clear my throat

of its toads and attempt to hum,

but my melody is a boorish grunt.

I ask Vanna, “Can you sing

that hymn from Mass?”

Giovanna spears me

with one sharp “No.”

A fish so dead I cannot flail

but slump to my bed,

my eyes spin blank and glassy.

Who stole my sister, and why?

I tiptoe to the window

in my large straw hat.

People gather below

and point up at me.

A woman shakes

her head. “No, it’s not her.”

And they all stride on.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I raise my voice like

a high fierce wind.

“I will go away,

but must you punish them?”

I gesture to the street below.

Vanna widens her lips;

a scratchy sound

like a poorly bowed violin

escapes her throat.

“I cannot sing.”

She turns from me,

weeping into her hands.

“There’s something from hell about me.”

I shake my head. “No.”

I try to garland my arms

around her neck.

“Do not touch me.”

Giovanna brandishes

her brush as a club.

“You have cursed me already.

Just leave me alone.”

I wanted to share

my story of the awful Debratto

with her, but I guess I will be solo

on this, only Mother to guide me.

OUR FAMILY NEEDS HELP

Marino clasps Mother’s hands.

I know I should return

to my bedchamber,

that the scene in the parlor

is private, but my feet

smolder into the floor.

“Paolo cannot handle

all of our orders.

He spends hours a day

with that courtesan Beatrice,

bewitched by her swooshing skirts.

He has lost focus.”

Marino inhales, then blows

out his breath

like he was working a punty.

“There is a gaffer all the families

bid to attain right now named Luca.

Giova believes if we sell off

our second fornica we might secure him.”

Marino looks at Mother

as if he were a child of five.

He kneels and kisses her hands.

Mother shakes her head.

“Your father asked me never to sell

the second furnace.”

“But we cannot afford materials,

cannot staff it; the kilns

are in disrepair.” Marino sighs.

“I do not want to sell it either,

but what else can we do?”

Mother rises and purses her lips.

“What if we give this Luca

a piece of the business,

make him half owner

of the second furnace

instead of selling it?”

“Make him, who comes

from the lower labor class,

like one of our family?”

Marino shakes his head.

“That could be dangerous.

Luca may not hold the same

respect for our family name

and business.”

I inch down the stairs.

Uncle Giova, silent as a chalice,

eyes the action from a corner chair.

Uncle finally speaks.

“On the other hand,

giving Luca a sizable stake

in our fornica

could build loyalty.

I am not sure he will receive

such offers from other families,

seeing as he has no known background.

Your mother’s plan has merit.

I will propose this to Luca.”

Marino pounds the table,

but then like the sky

after thunder and illumination,

he stills and quiets.

“Let it stand that I was against

this plan, but I will do my all

to make it work.”

Mother hugs her son.

“Let me speak to Paolo.

I will present this as a gift

not a dagger.”

All heads nod.

I turn and scamper up the stairs.

Giovanna glares down at me

with a wicked toothy grin.

“Maria, why are you standing

there on the stairs?” she says

so it echoes.

TROUBLE

My sister’s spite

poisons my veins.

Mother banishes me

to the tower of my room.

I must pray my prayer beads

all day because my ears

burned to hear

what they should not.

But worse,

Mother speaks to me

like a child not her own,

no camaraderie in her tone.

Giovanna never tattled on me,

rattled her tail,

spit venom in my face, before.

But because I must marry?

I grab her favorite brush,

dangle it out the window.

It would fragment

should I release it.

Vanna would do this to me.

But I cannot let it go.

I lay the brush on her vanity

and open my armoire.

What I want to do

is melt these dresses

in the fornica!

I want my sister back.

I long to tell her about Luca,

not have her delight

because I am a caged bird—

with nothing to see but old men,

with nothing to do, nothing I can draw,

and no one to talk to.

I yank my hair

and soak my pillow

in a storm of tears.

Mother’s scalding eyes,

so disappointed.

Will she trust me again?

And really,

what is wrong with me?

Why can’t I just do

what my father wanted?

SECOND SUITOR

A tall man with a speckled beard

and a senator’s crimson cloak

gaits up our walk

as though he were heralded

into our home like a duke.

He sniffs the air,

brushes off his coat,

and his manservant

hands my mother

a box of oranges and pears

from the Far East.

I peer into the box;

the oranges are the size

of a baby’s hand.

“My family, as you may know,

trades silks,” Signore Langestora explains.

“I am in charge of the shades

of blue we purchase. I will send

you over a bolt of our latest azure

so that Maria may have a dress made

for the next time we meet.”

Mother smiles at each word

that spits forth from this man’s mouth.

She did not heed my father as attentively.

Never once does Signore Langestora

glance in my direction;

it is as though he courts Mother.

I suppose this is customary.

I seal my mouth,

do not want to disgrace my family.

A sand martin flutters outside,

beating her wings against the pane glass

as though she wishes to be let in.

At first I want to signal her away,

far away from our house,

let her know that in this place

she will feel trapped

by the ceilings and closed doors.

But the bird flits foolishly at the window,

tired of the wind and waves,

looking for a cage inside

our warm safe home.

She wishes to land, not

hop from one branch to the next,

endlessly hungry.

“Maria would see the world,”

Signore Langestora says,

“as we would spend half the year at sea.

I assume she is accustomed to travel?”

“Well, actually”—Mother hesitates—

“she has never left Murano.”

“Fifteen and never off this little island?”

He slaps his thigh with a laugh.

“Well, we will test her sea legs, then.

I will be back in three days

to discuss the arrangements

with Marino and Giova.”

He kisses Mother’s hands,