Sisters of Glass (7 page)

I cannot even stand properly

in the garments. And it seems I will need

more fine garments to be wed

than my family has possessed altogether

in my entire fifteen years of living.

I am covered in pinpricks

and stand nearly twelve hours

to be fitted by tailors;

all the while Vanna rattles

my ears, naming the five hundred guests

who will attend my banquets,

people I have never heard of,

no one from Murano.

And I must be able to greet them all,

but especially know the relations

between all the ducal family.

“For after the ship

takes you to consummate your marriage

and live in the house

of Andrea Bembo and his father,

you shall not return to us”—

Vanna can hardly

finish the last words—

“but only wave us good-bye

from on board.”

The tears stream my face.

“Surely that cannot be

the tradition.”

“No, you belong to them.”

“I must be alone.”

I usher everyone, even Vanna,

out of my room.

The moon crests low in the sky

tonight. I ignore my call to dine.

Comfort comes only one way—

when I stare at the second fornica

and imagine myself inside its warmth,

then pick up my chalk.

My sketchbook fills with pictures.

Like a carafe overfilling with water,

like a garden blooming boatloads

of flowers, I cannot contain

the images in my head.

And all of them Luca.

REPLENISHMENT

Instead of breakfast

I sneak out the servants’ door.

In the smolder of the furnace Luca shines.

“What would you do

if you could not blow glass?”

I ask him.

He lowers his blowpipe.

“I have never considered it.

To make glass to me at this point

is to breathe. Whatever else I did

would be inconsequential.”

“Father always said he would have been

as a sailor adrift, without compass or stars—

a blind sailor,” I say.

“It is as if you know my mind.”

Luca twirls the pipe to cool down

his glass, but his focus is all on me.

“Do you blow glass, Maria?”

“No. I might try it someday,

but Father never permitted me.”

I look at him straight, not lowering

my eyes. “But I do sketch.”

“Show me sometime.”

I nod agreement,

but what will I show him

when all I render lately

is Luca himself?

A SECOND SISTER

A boat of grandeur

filled with fruits and flowers

awaits Mother and Vanna and me

at Murano’s main harbor.

Andrea sent it for us

so that we can visit his sister, Leona,

today. As I step aboard,

I tremble, for I leave my island

for the first time.

With each pull of the ferryman’s oar,

Murano quickly diminishes behind us

until it seems my home has been

swallowed by the sea.

Vanna looks not at all behind her

but only forward onto Venice.

Venice towers, all the buildings

double or triple the size of those

on Murano. As they lift me off the boat,

I fear I will fall into the canal

and disappear like my island behind me.

We board a gondola

to the Palazzo Bembo

where Leona awaits us.

“There is the Ducal Palace

and Piazza San Marco.”

Vanna points out these places

as if they were as familiar to her

as the fornicas at home.

The sun so bright I squint,

all I can see is swirls of color,

a smeared canvas.

I clutch the boat’s rail.

My breath puffs and puffs.

I should be delighting in the architecture

of this new scenery, but I feel

like my father’s blind sailor here,

as if I am drowning.

“Maria, you look faint, child,”

Mother says. “Perk up now.”

And then I see it,

a smudge at first,

but then aside the great Rialto Bridge

sits a palazzo that could feast upon

and hold three of our little palazzi

inside its belly, it is that grand.

A girl stands so still and strict

I think at first she must be stone,

but then I see she has Andrea’s unblinking eyes.

No smile crosses Leona’s lips

as I come into view.

She waves to Vanna,

but I receive a dead stare,

and then Leona shows me

the back of her hat.

She can show me her hat

as much she desires now,

but once I live in that palazzo,

like it or not, she will have

to face my face.

ANDREA’S SURPRISE

The palazzo will devour me,

I am sure of it.

Three servants wait

on each of us, one with wine,

one with water,

one with capon?

How did they know

my favorite dish?

“Mother, did you tell

them what to serve?”

I try to make my voice

a whisper, but Leona overhears.

“My dear, naive Maria,

did you not think

Andrea would provide

you what you like to eat?”

Her tone swats at me like a fly.

I am about to shove

the veal-stuffed sausage

up her veal-stuffed nose

when Vanna says,

“It was very considerate of Andrea.”

“My brother is a delight,”

Leona says.

I can’t be sure I agree,

but before I have time

to weigh the evidence

my sister says,

“Maria, it is a lovely frame

they have chosen, is it not?”

Vanna points to the wall.

My sketch of the garden hangs,

my first ever mounted,

and right beside a Bellini.

I almost want to dance,

but it would be most improper,

and mostly I fear

it might allow Leona

some sort of satisfaction.

Leona says,

“Yes, Andrea chose the frame.

Lovely, isn’t it?”

And I do agree, but for now

I keep it to myself.

DIVIDED

The waves lash

against the ferry

and we are beat to and fro

in the sea, sometimes pushed

toward Murano and sometimes

toward Venice.

The sun sets and all blazes,

so that I cannot distinguish

which island is home.

Would it not have been easier

if Andrea had been a clod?

But part of me is somewhat drawn

to Venice, her grandeur

and estate. And Andrea

made me feel welcome,

even if his sister did not.

A NEW SUBJECT

Now more than ever I must show Luca

the work of my hands,

of my head, the pictures that flow

and bubble from inside of me,

but my fingers shake to sketch

anything today.

Suddenly my hand slicks across the page

like a bird in pursuit darts the sky.

I close my eyes and outline her face

and hair. I open my eyes to capture

the way Vanna sees beyond the window.

I remember the wonder with which

she beheld Venice and draw it into

Vanna’s smile.

Later when we discuss

the wedding preparations

and plan another voyage to Venice

and the Bembo palazzo, I do not grit

my teeth but instead study my sister.

I will memorize her face and the setting

around her, the gardens, the tables,

paintings, and cloths. I will sketch

this all for Luca. I will find less horror

now in traveling across the sea,

less discomfort in my shoes.

I will focus and not speak

out of turn, just capture the scene

for my canvas

and show it all, one day soon,

to my dear gaffer.

CREATION

I sneak down to the fornica.

Luca smiles as though

I had let the entire sun

into the room.

“What are you working on today?”

I ask him.

“I am not working right now,

but hush and do not tell your

uncle and brothers.”

“Dear Luca, I hate to tell you,

but there is something forming

out of the moile on your punty.”

“I know this, but when one

loves what he does as much

as I do, can it be called work?”

he says with a wink.

I want to throw my apron

at Luca then, but I understand

what he means.

“Creation can be a gift.”

“You are a very smart girl, Maria.”

APPRECIATION

Mother leaves me to sit

alone with Andrea,

my soon-to-be betrothed,

and I tug at my sleeve for lack

of what to say or do.

Vanna would be full

of topics. I force an awkward smile

and say,

“It is a beautiful day.”

“Yes, the sea appears to melt

into the sky this morning.”

Andrea’s words surprise me.

“My uncle says it is always

days like this that promise

to bring darkest rain clouds

by afternoon.” I want to stuff

my sleeve down my throat.

Can I speak of nothing but weather?

“Well, Ovid said,

‘Beauty is a fragile gift.’

Guess we best enjoy

the day while we can.

Shall we stroll the garden?”

Andrea takes my arm

and for once I feel

like a true lady,

the way I imagine

Vanna must feel

on most days.

And it is nice.

TWO SUITABLE SUITORS?

How is a girl to choose

between a green dress

and a blue?

One pleases your family,

the other pleases you.

One man appreciates beauty,

is kind, and fulfills your duty.

The other creates glass,

but what of the future if he knows no past?

To follow the head

or the heart,

this is the question

that rips me apart.

THE SKETCHBOOK

As soon as Vanna and Mother

set to the market,

when I am to study

the ducal lineage

alone in my chambers,

I hide the sketchbook

under my skirt and slip

out of my bedroom.

He doesn’t notice me at first.

And there is a moment

when I nearly turn to run.

It is as though all

motion stops like the stillness

right before

the howl of a rainstorm.

I feel as though

I could dash and escape,

as if underneath my feet

a path emerges wherein

I could leap

one way to the door

or the other toward Luca.

While I hesitate,

Luca turns round.

“Is that your sketchbook?”

I must then bring it forth.

My steps wobble

and he pries

the book from my clutch.

I retreat to the shadows

like a cockroach

scared of light.

Luca turns the pages slowly.

I have brought him only five drawings

from my new book.

He waves me over.

“This is your sister, no?

I never realized how beautiful

she is.” Luca’s eyes radiate in a way

I have never seen.

He breathes in deeply

as if to inhale the drawing.

Of course, he is looking at Vanna—

the curve of her face.

He cannot quite speak now,

all that emerges from his lips

is
“Bella,”
and his eyes, his silly

sparkling eyes, they never lift from the page.

MI DISPIACE
(I’M SORRY)

I snatch back the sketchbook and run.

I might have left black marks

upon the floor, I exited so quickly.

I will not permit Luca the satisfaction

of my foolish brimming eyes.

What did I expect, everyone loves Vanna.

In my stomach a black crow

caws its wicked claws out for sisterly

vengeance, but before I reach

our chambers the crow has been

digested. It is not Vanna’s fault

that Luca prefers her. She did not even

ask me to draw a sketch of her.

Her beauty is crystal,

and I am clay.

The foolishness is all my own

for even thinking he would ever care for me.

I know now why Father

willed me to a senator;

no one else

would have me.

“Maria!” The voice nets me like a fish.

I hide no tears from Mother.

“What is in your hands?”

I give up the sketchbook.

I give it all up.

I tell her about my visits

to see Luca

and my foolish feelings for him.

I kneel beside her

and clutch her legs

and let the tears torrent

and the apologies stream

out of my unclogged mouth.

Mother listens with no scolding.

She cradles my head

and wipes my tears

with her thumb.

Though I am crumbling

Mother’s arms form

a moat around me.

“Mother, please don’t tell anyone

about my feelings for Luca.”

“Of course not, sweet Maria.”

She leafs through my sketchbook