Sisters of Glass (4 page)

nods to me,

readjusts his cloak and hat,

and exits.

I understand most business transactions,

but what just transpired

I cannot quite comprehend.

THE ARRIVAL OF LUCA

No procession with banners

or festival of boats,

but Carlotta prepares a feast

worthy of the Podesta,

the political leader of Murano—

appetizers of grapes, figs, and

Berlingozzo, followed by courses

of pigeon with trout, veal with sausage,

and my favorite, capon.

My stomach squeals

for the dishes to be served,

though this new-fashioned corset

with its tightly laced strings

will scarcely allow me

to
sample
each one.

I peek out my window

like a curious bird

twisting her head halfway round

until my neck strains.

Giovanna just brushes her hair.

I expect trumpets to sound,

doors to unhinge,

but we are simply called to meal,

as our guest has arrived.

Luca’s back reveals

a craftsman’s brown cloak,

nothing to note;

still, the twenty-two-year-old

ruffles his shoulders and awaits

Uncle’s servile assistance

with his drapings

as though Uncle were his manservant,

when properly it is Luca

who should kneel

to my uncle.

My uncle handles Luca’s cape

as Marino presents Giovanna and me,

but Luca pays kinder eyes

to the canal rats.

So as Luca and all swivel round,

I thrust my tongue at Luca’s better side.

Preparations for this meal

three days in the making,

and our guest offers no comment

on the food or glassware we serve.

We ought to pour him dog urine.

“Did you not like your capon, Luca?”

“I found it salty.”

He snubs his piggish nose

and searches the table

for the source of the question.

“What you taste is thyme,”

I say, before I can consider

practicing decorum.

And after consideration

I determine God

will forgive me.

“And rosemary,”

he says, and stands.

“Who is speaking?”

I rise and curtsy.

Luca’s gray eyes whirl.

Mother’s voice lashes.

“Maria, apologize now!

Then take your leave.”

I pick up my skirts

with verve and clamor,

but I hold quiet my tongue.

Whether or not

Mother forgives me.

TIDES OF IMPORT

Mother forgets to be angry

with me,

because like an ocean claiming the beach

at high tide,

Luca moves into and then overtakes

the second fornica

as though it belongs only to him.

Marino wears

a mask of I-told-you-so,

until he realizes

Mother’s nerves leave her faint.

Uncle Giova

tells Mother not to worry so much,

that tides shift back.

I overhear her frantic

“But at the speed he is producing glass,

Luca will raise money

to open the second fornica within months.

I am beginning to regret

that I did not heed Marino and keep the business

within our family alone.

Perhaps I disrespect Angelo’s wishes in this way.”

Mother bites her lower lip.

“Even so.” Uncle hushes her. “Please,

do not

let your children catch wind of your fears.”

So instead

Mother obsesses over

“Where is the bolt of azure silk

Signore Langestora promised?”

Did the boat capsize?

Did Carlotta’s ears miss

the knock of delivery?

Mother paces the front hall

like a hungry seabird

combing the shore for scraps,

back and forth,

   back and forth.

I inch down the stairs.

Mother’s head hangs limp

as wet clothes on a line.

“Where is he?”

Mother asks my brothers.

Paolo snaps,

“I would have taken up

swords with him,

but Signore Langestora

is missing as frost in heat.”

Marino adds,

“He has likely sailed

to the East. Wherever he is,

he does not intend

to honor his word.”

“I had hoped this was settled,”

Mother says to Marino.

“But we shall have to start all over.”

“Do not fret,” Marino says.

“It will be an easier task

now that Luca is here.

His work is as fine as they say,

and he produces pieces

as fast as lightning

branches the sky.

A true genius, I tell you.

Paolo and I can interview

noblemen for Maria tomorrow

and with more care.”

Marino offers Mother his kerchief.

“Oh no, I shed no tears over

that Signore Langestora

and his false promises.

He shall regret not marrying my daughter.”

I’d sooner swallow glass

than marry that thin-nosed fish-eye

or any man who insults my family.

MY ESCAPE

So I am not wanted

by a man of crimson cloak

or my sister;

why should I care?

I am hard as glass,

and any dare break me

or cross me

shall be cut.

I sneak past my mother

and my brothers,

refuse the prison of my room.

I trail the servants who stoke

the furnace fires,

their arms choked with wood.

They hasten me away.

None permit me near the flames,

but I wait, patient as a monk.

And when the servants saunter away

I unlatch the furnace door.

Luca alone stands within,

and he waves me inside.

A BRIEF RESPITE

“You are quite dressed

for the furnace this morning,”

Luca says without lifting his eyes.

Why does he not address me

like the lady I am, as he should?

I feel my cheeks begin to ire pink

but will not be flustered.

I brush my hands

on my new velvet petticoat.

“Yes, well, Mother and I were to—

oh, never you mind.

Where is Paolo?”

I ask the question

though I know well

my brother is at the palazzo.

Luca shrugs and beckons me forth.

I might turn and run

or disobey him out of spite,

but the furnace fire

warms me,

and in his work clothes

Luca loses a hint of his bitter smell.

“Maria, bring me the pincers.”

Luca stretches out his hand.

“Unless you are too fair

for such work.”

Why I fasten on an apron

I can’t exactly say.

Perhaps it is because Luca

has remembered my name,

but more likely it is lack

of anything better to do.

I smack the tool into his palm.

“What are you making?”

Luca spins toward me

with his half-finished work.

“A betrothal glass.

It will be sent to the enameler

after this for decoration.”

Even though the stem

is yet to be completed,

the goblet Luca molds

is the flawless blue of deep ocean.

I step away from the fires

but cannot peel my eyes

from his work.

“What do you think they will mark

upon the glass?” Luca asks.

“How should I know?” I say.

I feel steamy and wipe my brow

with my apron.

“I thought you were the one

preparing to be married, Maria?”

he says with a smile that feels as

though he has knifed me to the wall.

This causes me to redden.

I begin to say, “How dare you presume

to know everything about—”

A shock of thunder cracks above us,

followed by heavy pounding on the roof.

I can waste not another word,

for the rain falls in waves.

And if my petticoat is soaked and stained of soot,

Mother will surely hail down upon me.

CAUGHT IN THE RAIN

The rain beads

upon my dress

like rotten pearls,

for I brought no cloak

to cover me.

Were I a few years younger

I might consider removing

my dress altogether and running home

in my
camicia
, but that might bring scandal

should it reach the ears of the government,

and I dare not cause my family

embarrassment or punishment.

Carlotta gasps to see me.

“Maria, your mother!”

“Please help me remove

this dress before I do any more harm.”

Laughter boils behind me

like hot oil hissing from an open pot.

“What about your fitting, dear sister?

How shall you wiggle your way

clear of that? How could Father

imagine you to be a lady?”

“Do my ears mistake me

or is my sister actually speaking to me?”

The char in my words

stops her clever smile midway.

“What do I care, Maria?”

Vanna squints.

“But Mother will know

you have been out of the house.”

This I know, but does my sister

need to keep tally on all I do wrong?

Has she nothing else to do?

FLOODING

The rain prevents travel

across the canal.

It cries down

upon the earth

with anger and passion.

Our furnace floods,

and everyone except me

is called to bail it

and preserve the fires and wood

so we will not lose precious time

we need to produce our glass.

Our palazzo echoes

like an empty drum,

gray and gloomy

as my disposition.

I almost wish to have

been in trouble over my dress

rather than tread water

in my isolated loneliness.

Thunder announces itself,

and a voice calls,

“Hello?”

“No one is here but me, Maria,”

I yell, and scurry to the front hall.

Luca’s hair drips a puddle

onto the floor. He slicks it back

with his hand, and his eyes

nearly shimmer silver in the half-light.

“Fetch your cloak. We must go

and move the supplies in the studio.”

“But Mother said I was to—”

“Hurry! The rain does not wait

for you to make debate.”

I speed up the stairs,

whirl on my cloak

as though it were a cape.

I grasp Luca’s hand

and rush into the downpour.

A quiver radiates up my spine.

I quickly release my hold.

“Follow me,” I say,

trying to sound authoritative.

OUT OF HARM’S WAY

We lift the soda ash

and the manganese

onto the higher tables.

My cloak feels boulder weight

with rain and cold;

I shake it out in the corner

of the room.

“The rain rages still.

Let’s wait here

until she calms a bit.”

I nod, though I should return home,

for the studio is drafty,

but mainly it is strange

to be alone with Luca again.

A pregnant silence presides over the room.

“So your father was a master gaffer?”

“No,” Luca says.

“Your grandfather?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Uncle?” Again I receive a negative response.

“Well, then who?”

“You must delight in your own speech.”

Luca smiles at me.

I fold my arms and turn from him.

The mud on my shoes holds more interest.

“I have no family I know of. An old maestro

I swept floors for as a child apprenticed me.

But what does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” I say, but I cannot look

at him for fear I might reveal otherwise.

“Well, the rain stopped her throttle,

so we should go back,” Luca says.

I nod, for unlike Luca,

soon enough my family

will note that I am gone

and worry where I am.

CALLED TO DUTY

The flood fragmented,

like shells upon the shore,

a whole shipment

of orders Paolo and Luca

labored two weeks

with many apprentices

to prepare.

Even I am called

to staff the ship

and create a batch.

I smile as I dust off

our recipe book.

Father, steer my rusty

hands with your gentle sail
.

I carry the mixture

down to the furnace.

Luca works inside alone.

I hesitate like a frightened bird,

circle and toe the ground

before I approach him.

“Where is your fancy gown?

Am I not worthy of your finery today?”

Luca’s smile is nearly a smirk.

“I might toss this batch

at your head, sir, were it not

three days in the making,”

I say, and set down my bucket.

“You have prepared this.

I thought your full occupation

was feathered caps and wooden shoes.”

He laughs. “What kind of glass

shall this mixture produce?”

“You know less than a flea.”

I turn to leave.

Luca grabs my arm. “I jest with you.

Please stay and watch a moment

if you like, and we’ll see together