Sisters of Glass (9 page)

something magical has passed

between them.

“We are planning the seating

arrangements for the betrothal

ceremony and processional.”

Leona’s lips curl up like a gondola

in the presence of her brother.

She also is taken in by his apparent charm—

a man stumbling from a bush?

They seem a happy family.

And yet somehow when I

step aboard the Bembo boat

it capsizes, as though my weight

upsets its careful balance.

Giovanna shimmers at the Bembo

palazzo. She seems already

to be a sister of Leona’s

and sits comfortably at the table

during meal.

“I love the hat you chose

for the betrothal dress, Maria.”

Leona points at my head

with a bit of hope.

“Vanna selected it,” I say quietly.

I see the gondola sink

deeper into the sea for me

and swing its door wide

for Giovanna.

“I should have surmised,” Leona says,

in a voice reserved for children.

Part of me wishes

to thrash my tongue at her.

But I just rap my fingers on my knees,

knowing we soon leave port for Murano.

The noon sun

shines bright and direct upon us.

The glare catches Vanna’s eyes

such that she pains, and I remove

my new hat and place it upon

my sister’s head.

It looks so lovely, feathered

and correct. It always belonged

upon her crown. And after the

fierce sun passes when Vanna

tries to give it back, I refuse

to take it.

MI RIFIUTO
(I REFUSE)

I refuse to accept

that nothing can be done

but to accept

that I must marry Andrea Bembo

and Giovanna must marry Luca.

I refuse to believe

we should follow a will

that breaks tradition and hearts and sense

like a crew who go down

with their sinking vessel

when we all can

kick and swim to shore.

I grab my sketchbook

and rush to the place

I feel most afloat—

the fornica.

BETROTHAL GOBLET

The goblet’s beauty terrifies

like a gem so large

it overwhelms the hand

that wears it.

“Well, does the noblewoman

herself come

to examine her wares?”

He bows down

in an exaggerated curtsy

and extends me the glass.

“I present your betrothal goblet.”

I wish to hurl it at his face,

but instead I set it upon the table.

Luca and I stare at the azure glass,

yet unadorned. I should like

to smash it to a thousand shards.

A scroll of paper tangles

inside the cup’s neck

with flowers and birds

and an inscription

I refuse to accept.

“What is that?”

I point to the paper

in horror.

“The outline for the enameler.

Do you think they just place

glass upon glass without thought—

no, he must know what to paint.”

Luca will no longer look at me.

“Well, take your marriage glass.”

“I will not,” I say.

“Fine, I shall send it with Vanna,

then. What business do you have

in my fornica anyway? Go away,”

he says, with his back turned to me still.

I pick up the ugly scroll

that taints Luca’s work

and quietly tuck it into my dress.

“No, I wish to stay,” I say,

but my voice is no larger

than a pebble in a child’s hand.

VULNERABLE

Luca’s back transforms

from a barrier into a shield,

and I ask with a voice

quiet as a spider spinning a web,

“Luca, do you want to marry

Vanna?”

His turn is soft

as though he were on wheels.

“I want to own the second fornica.

I do not hide this from anyone.

And there is nothing

wrong with your sister.”

As I step closer

to the fire of the fornica

and Luca,

my shadow lengthens.

“I understand.

And you are correct.

My sister is wonderful.”

“What is that you clutch

so tightly?” Luca gestures

to my sketchbook. I almost

forgot that I held it in my arms.

I shake my head no.

Even though I brought it

for him to see,

now I feel I have made

a dreadful mistake.

He wrangles it from my grasp,

and I crumble backward

a few steps like someone

yanked and released my hair.

Luca flips quickly through the sheets.

“But these are all of me?” he says

with that accusing voice of his.

The tears sting, but it is too late

now to run away unknown.

“Yes, you fool, of course they are.

Don’t you know?”

I am swift as gale winds

toward the door,

but Luca blocks my way.

“Stay. Sit down.

Listen now to how
I
feel,

sweet Maria.”

His hand upon my arm

so warm and gentle,

I melt and bend.

And I know now

he will never allow me

to shatter upon the floor.

LIFTING THE FOG

Luca clasps my hand full

in his and leads me to the bench,

a true gentleman. We sit so close

beside one another our ankles touch,

our hands still laced.

He begins, “I feel as though I have

been in a great fog with you, Maria,

ever since that first moment when

you asked me did I not know

what thyme was.”

I smile.

He squeezes my hand.

“The fog has been lovely

and mysterious, and I have enjoyed

treading and searching through it

for you, but now the weather lifts

and you stand before me in all

your light. And I am not sure

that I deserve you,

for I do not know what a family is,

having neither a mother nor a father

to remember.”

There is a moment when

I think a tear may form

in the crook of his eye.

I want to kiss all his sadness away,

drown it in an ocean of my cheer,

but Luca continues,

“My heart feels for you

like I feel for my greatest glass,

only more, but I am not certain

that this is enough.”

He tries to go on,

but I put a finger to his lips

and draw a smile.

“Oh, but it is,” I say.

“It is more than I could dream

to ask for from anyone. I have

even imagined myself your glass,

only until now I believed

my feelings would shatter me.

And even that

didn’t stop me caring for you.”

Luca kneels before me now.

“Never would I break

one I wish to call family,”

he says.

MY PROTECTOR

Between me and the world,

my sister has always been

safe bedrock in a sinking marsh.

She is a straw hat against noon glare,

a melody bludgeoning night gloom.

Between me and my doubts,

my sister is a shore

that breaks tides apart.

Her cathedral bells ring

day in and out.

Between me and my mother,

my sister is cristallo.

She can see both sides

and remain lovely and unbroken

to each.

Between me and my impatient heart,

my sister navigates breakwaters

with steady hands.

So what if I

have stolen from my sister

a thing she precious desires to keep—

her chance to become a bride?

HOW TO EXPLAIN

Before I can think of what to say

to plead my side of it,

Vanna grasps my hands.

“Maria, I have a solution.

You see, I think I know

how to solve all of these entanglements.

Why are you so flushed

and yet pale? Sit down.

Where have you been?”

My sister’s words

are rapid as a hailstorm,

and I think I may faint

if I stay on my feet.

“I was with Luca, and, Vanna, I—”

“Wonderful,” Vanna says.

“You must be with him.

Marry him, I mean, for that

is your true destiny.

And I just know

that is what he wishes too.

Sisters know these things.”

Vanna cannot stop talking.

It is as though her mouth

spits dragon fire.

“I know this sounds odd to you,

but I think I may wish to marry

Andrea Bembo. I know

that you find him clumsy at times,

but his awkwardness is quite

precisely his charm to me.

And I do believe it is my destiny

to become a Bembo.

So now all we need to do

is to execute a plan.”

“Oh, yes,” I say with excitement.

“What is the plan?”

“Well, I supposed that you

would think of that portion.”

Vanna looks blankly at me

for a moment.

“I jest,”

she finally says.

“I am not certain yet,

but I do know that I must go

directly to visit Leona

and ask for her aid

in this switching of sisters

we propose.”

Leona helping me,

well that would be quite

different, but if Vanna

thinks it possible …

“You keep Mother occupied,”

Vanna says.

“How am I to do that?”

I ask Giovanna.

“Oh, Maria. Now, you can think

of something you both enjoy,”

Vanna says, and swooshes off

faster than a gale wind.

A LAYER OF ENAMEL

Mother and I polish the beakers,

and she bombards me again

with betrothal ceremony preparations.

“We must think again about

what sort of play act we should hire

to amuse our guests. It is tradition,

of course, to …”

Her voice is a stream of babble

I scarce understand and care

less about than boiled cabbage.

“The betrothal goblet that Luca made?”

I ask her.

Mother perks up at the word
betrothal

from my lips. I so rarely utter it.

“Yes, it certainly is fine,” she says.

“How does the enameler inscribe and apply

the decoration to the glass?” I ask her.

Fully deflated by my technical question,

not related in fact to marriage preparations,

Mother demands, “What does it matter, Maria?”

“I just want the glass to be perfect,

as it reflects on Father and our family.”

“I had not thought of that.”

I ask her again, “Do you know the technique?”

“The enameler in essence paints on the enamel,

which is also glass. I believe then that the goblet

is reheated to a melting point so the enamel

attaches to the goblet but not so severely

that the glass entirely loses its shape.

Why don’t you take the goblet

to the enameler and see for yourself?” she says.

“May I?”

“Did I not just give you permission?”

“Mother, I also took liberty to draw

some improved birds and flowers

to adorn the cup and traced them

onto a scroll for the enameler.”

I hand my sketchbook

with simple outlines of doves

and roses to Mother.

“Here is the sketch I made,

but I want the final glass to be a present

for Andrea from me and none to see it

beforehand.”

“This is a lovely gesture,” she says,

and launches back into talk of the ceremony,

what we shall eat, where I shall sit,

what everyone shall wear,

her words as dull as

the unpolished glassware before us.

But right now I could run barefoot

on broken cullet I am so pleased.

For the first portion of my plan

seems to be set.

ENAMELER

Gold is leaf-cut, pressed,

and then fixed into place

with a gummy mixture

just as bricks are laid upon each other

and set to dry in the sun.

The gilder scrapes away

the hearts I marked along the lip

of the betrothal goblet

as carefully as he shaves

hair from his chin.

The enamel is then painted

along my tracings with a fine brush—

first a blue glass paste, then crimson,

then green. The scene

of two lovers exchanging rings,

each astride a horse,

comes to life.

The woman shakes

out bejeweled blond locks,

which none can mistake.

They belong only to one girl,

my sister, Giovanna.

And the man

with the family crest Bembo

can be none other than Andrea.

The cup dries

and heats inside

the annealer so glass

fuses to glass—

and my design

is forever captured

upon Luca’s work.

MY OWN PLAN

My plan is

to ask Andrea

to marry my sister,

no, to ask Andrea

to ask my sister to marry him,

no, to ask Andrea if he wants

to ask my sister if she wants

to marry him.

My plan is