Sisters of Glass (5 page)

what appears.”

“And if I don’t?”

I say under my breath,

but I sit down.

THE ART OF GLASSBLOWING

The magic of glass

resides in alchemy,

the correct mixture

and preparation

turning stone, ash, metal,

fire, and breath

into clear solid beauty.

The craft of glass

relies less on tools

of the bench

and more on training

the mouth and lips

of the gaffer himself,

the one whose

breath molds the cup

or the vase.

The art of glass

is not color or clarity

or shape alone.

Art births from the mind.

Father always said

a true artist sees

each piece as unique,

as an individual.

Luca preheats the blowpipe

in the furnace’s hottest chamber,

then gathers the molten moile

like honey on a dipper.

He rolls his gooey tube,

glowing like a spark turning to flame

on the marble marver’s flat surface,

before he dares bring the pipe

to his lips

and blow a bubble

of bright orange-yellow

trimmed in red,

which balloons on the edge

of his tube.

Luca swings round his punty

to his bench and light streams

behind him as if he were an angel.

His jack, blocks, tweezers, paddle,

and shears surround him,

but he reaches for no tool.

He closes his eyes

and imagines the pitcher

in perfect clarity.

It is as though I meet him

for the first time

as he begins to create

his glass art,

and he looks at me

and says,

“The batch is perfect, Maria.”

FAMILY SERVICE

Mother examines the sleeve

of my new gown.

“You missed some dirt right here.”

Her eyebrow rises like a shadow.

“Remind me again why

you were caught out of doors?”

“I thought I heard Paolo call

for help during the flood rain.”

Vanna’s mouth opens, her tongue

unfurling like a snail popping

out of its shell, but she says nothing.

“Still, stain or not, this is the latest

fashion, and you should wear it

when you meet the next suitor.”

“I thought perhaps Uncle and Marino

would meet with him instead.”

“There is far too much work

to do because of the flood.

Besides, I am not sure they

are well equipped to choose

a partner for you,” Mother says,

as she untangles my hairpiece.

“This is dreadful.”

I nod. “What more can I do to help?”

“Why, Maria, wonderful that you

should ask. Why don’t you

take this hair and reweave it?”

I sink as lead in water.

I hoped Mother would let me

continue to help with the batches.

I accept the hairpiece

with a half smile.

“I’ll set right to work.”

AT SUPPER

I don’t care much

for the pot that Carlotta prepares,

but Uncle Giova feasts upon the bones.

“Have you been away at sea?

A starving sailor might eat less than you.”

Marino pokes at Uncle.

Uncle laughs as he licks his bone.

“A healthy appetite is good for the soul,

dear nephew.”

Mother motions for me to sit more erect

in my chair. I expect Vanna to snicker

as a snorting pig, but she just demonstrates

what Mother meant by “erect”

when Mother’s eyes are averted,

just like the old Vanna would have.

Paolo sneezes and we all say,

“May the spirits be blown away,”

because that is what Father always said

whenever someone sneezed.

Luca seems puzzled or maybe

just left out,

like a child without playmates

watching other children

toss around a ball.

Uncle’s tone switches from jovial

to officious, from golden hues to ash.

“Seems you had a fine day, Luca?”

“I finished your cups,

if that is what you mean.”

Luca does not look up from his bowl.

“All of the old orders from London

are completed?”

Uncle Giova sets down his bone.

Luca nods as he twirls on his cloak.

“Thank you for the meal,”

he says to Mother.

As soon as the door clangs closed,

Mother covers her mouth with her hand.

“Well, how impertinent not to remain

until we are finished. Where did he need

to fly in such haste?”

Paolo crosses to the window.

“He returns to the furnace.

I suppose we are just not fit

to dine with Signore Luca,

not being from the papal line.”

Everyone laughs except for me.

But I wonder if perhaps Luca strays

from our family table

for reasons we Baroviers

are too fortunate to understand.

SUNLIGHT

1

When Luca fails to appear

the next morning for our earliest meal,

I hide bread and pears beneath my skirt.

How I will sneak the food

to Luca, I know not.

Mother pulls at her fingers

as though she would pluck

them from her hands

like garden weeds.

She eats not a thing,

which signals Vanna and me

to hurry into our day.

I ask, “Mother, might I practice

walking outside in my new high shoes?”

I expect her to forbid me.

But Mother waves a gesture

of indifference, her mind

sailing on some distant sea.

After Paolo and Marino and Vanna

set to the fornica I slip down the stairs,

my shoes in hand so I make not a clack.

Mother and Uncle pace the parlor.

I feel like a house rat

creeping along the wall

so as not to be caught or trapped.

“He works today cleaning

and preparing the second fornica?”

Mother begs with her wide eyes

to be contradicted.

“We made a contract,

and Luca has the day

to do as he pleases.”

Uncle Giova covers Mother’s

fluttering hands.

2

Outside, the sun warms my head.

And like a flower opening

its bloom after rain,

I cannot contain my smile.

I stare at the furnace door,

debate knocking,

then call out, “Luca?”

No one answers

so I creak into the cave

of the second fornica.

Cobwebs, dust,

and an overall dank odor

permeate the room.

My eyes adjust to the shadows,

and I discover Luca slumped

in a corner, his eyes shut.

I tap his shoulder,

and he sprouts awake.

“Maria, what are you—?

Could they not afford to buy you

a complete dress?

This one seems not to cover your chest.”

I launch the breakfast

I saved for him into his lap.

“It is the latest style.”

I feel heated even in the colder room

and fear a flush paints my cheeks.

I cover my face with my hands.

He bites into a pear.

“Thank you. I am famished.

There is more work here

to be done than I supposed.”

“I could help you.”

The words dribble from my lips

before I consider how

I might be able to do so.

“It is probably better that you don’t.”

A pang of anger stirred with pain

clamps my center.

He continues, “But if you should visit,

I would always welcome you in.”

Luca’s eyes stun me.

I can neither move nor speak,

like one under a spell.

I finally nod.

A sticky web caps my hair.

My mouth tastes woolen,

and I cannot think what to say.

I open the door and half stumble

into the street.

3

I smile,

as ornate and obvious in my good cheer

as a jeweled and feathered hat.

Vanna nearly knocks me over

in the street.

She shakes her head.

“Where have you been?”

Even she cannot

vanquish my joy.

“Practicing my walk

in these high shoes,” I say.

“And it is a lovely day.”

“You hide the truth.”

Giovanna pulls a cobweb

out of my hair.

“I saw you come out

of the second furnace.

What were you doing there?”

My smile trampled, I turn to silence,

that great stone wall bricked

between me and my sister.

But Vanna smiles kindly at me.

“Be careful,” she says,

and she tucks a loose tendril

behind my ear.

I nod, though my face

must look bewildered

as a beached whale.

Has my sister

decided to return

and the devil

who replaced her

begun to take leave?

ALONE AT LAST

I slide from beneath my mattress

my hidden sketchbook,

and as if possessed

my hand dashes across the paper

until what emerges

from the swirls of chalk

is Luca’s face.

His eyes like perfect glass

reflect light off the page.

What surprises me most

is that I draw him in a furnace

I have never visited.

A room buzzing with apprentices

where Luca aids an old man.

Luca is a child, an orphan

whose plight I do not know,

but my mind’s eye

envisions the scene complete

and precise.

BY ANY MEANS?

Mother and Uncle and Marino

pile so many orders

upon Luca’s back

that he cannot leave

the main fornica to eat,

scarce restore the second one.

I flurry and pace before my window,

a winged dove

trapped behind a glass pane.

Paolo leaves the furnace

with a cartload of beakers,

and I must find a way

to dodge Mother and Vanna.

If only I could fly

or scale the wall.

I hitch one leg up

onto the window’s ledge

but then pull it back.

“Why are you spying on Luca?”

Vanna startles me.

I did not notice she had entered the room.

My heartbeat runs like horse hooves,

and again I feel hot.

I say, “I believe there is something

about Luca I must discover.”

“Yes, something you must discover

about Luca,” Vanna says

with an odd wink.

“Sneak out the servants’ door,

and I shall tell Mother

you are resting.”

I should not go,

misleading Vanna so,

but I stumble into my shoes

and out the door.

LUCA, ARTIST IN RESIDENCE

Luca is at work when I enter.

I settle myself into a corner

of the room.

I wish to have my sketchbook tonight,

for Luca magics into being

three crystal platters for the Doge’s palace,

each more radiant than the last.

Watching him reminds me

of observing my father

as he perfected a new recipe

to make our glass flawless.

A tear brims my eye to think of my father.

I can only imagine

what ache Luca must feel,

never even knowing

his own family.

Luca says nothing to me,

but I know he knows

I have come,

and I know

he is glad that I am here.

QUIET MADNESS

I rustle Vanna from sleep.

“Did Mother come check on me?”

“Yes, but not to worry.

I told her you were resting.

A new suitor visits tomorrow.

I have laid out your dress

and fixed your hairpiece.”

Vanna’s eyes spider red,

and her face blanches with exhaust.

“But you have so much work

of your own.”

I kiss her hands.

Vanna rises upon her elbows,

suddenly more alert.

“Just tell me the truth

about Luca.”

“What do you—”

She clasps my hands.

“How do you feel about him?”

I am grateful the night shields

my lying eyes.

“He is a very good gaffer,

and I feel sorry for all

the work he has to do

because of the flood,” I say,

and throw my blanket

around myself.

I wish I could trust Vanna.

But even then, what would I tell her—

that when I am with Luca

I long to be molten moile upon his punty,

something he turns to beauty,

a work of art he prizes above all else?

I could not even say this

to the sister I knew before.

It sounds like madness.

And it would likely cause

my family unrest

were I to tangle myself up

with Luca.

“I was wrong, then,”

Giovanna sighs,

and within minutes

I hear the small popping blows

of her sleeping breath.

FULL OF FEATHERS, SHORT OF HAIR

Another old stuffed shirt

Mother and I greet

in the parlor,

aged to be my father

not my husband.

An odd, pudgy man,

why does he not cover

his skull, as he is bald

in the center of his head?