The Secret of the Glass (7 page)

Sophia’s stomach gurgled; the tantalizing aromas of the beautifully presented meal awakened an appetite, up till now ignored. She reached out to the heaped and bulging platters strewn before her.

“Pass me the mutton, Sophia,
per favore?
” Vito asked.

Sitting to her father’s right, with Vito and his brother to her right, Sophia dutifully lifted the serving dish on her left and passed it.

“May I have the bread, Sophi?” This from Ignacio, and Sophia fulfilled his request with equal grace, believing attention to her own repast was at hand. She was mistaken.

Her hands entered a never-ending dance, a whirlwind of movement, tasting a few scant bites of her own meal as she passed the laden trenchers back and forth, filling the constant requests of the two hungry young men.

Sophia rolled her eyes heavenward, out of amusement rather than annoyance, and set herself merrily to the task. She begrudged them nothing, not their place at her family’s table, not the food they consumed. With these youthful companions, she felt entirely comfortable and relaxed, free of worry or care about what she did or what she said. She considered them colleagues, compatriots in the love of the glass. Never when among them did she feel the anxiety or shyness that so often plagued her with others outside the family.

Across the food-covered expanse, Sophia discerned the glint of satisfaction on her mother’s and grandmother’s faces as their guests devoured their culinary creations. She recognized it, the smiles bordering on the smug, the contentment and fulfillment of a task accomplished with aplomb. She knew it herself, every time someone marveled at one of her masterpieces or purchased one for great sums of money. Deriving the same gratification from concocting a meal, no matter how delicious, seemed unfeasible to Sophia.

By the time the sweet crumbs of dessert lay scattered across the soiled cream tablecloth, more than an hour had passed and the frenzied pace of hungry eating had subsided to a more sedate tempo of sated relaxation and enjoyment. Zeno shared his
amaretto
and Sophia sipped the deep amber liquid, relishing the almond-flavored cordial as it slithered down her throat in a warming stream. Ignacio and Vito nibbled on the few
cannoli
left on the scallop-edged platter, and Lia seemed unable to stop popping
struffoli,
the small fried dough balls slathered in honey, into her mouth with rhythmic repetition.

The two boys were a lively addition to the spirited family discussions; the conversation and laughter, as replete as the feast, showed no sign of abatement. The long shadows of dusk stretched and groped for the horizon until night’s dusky fingers mingled amongst them and Zeno lit the sweet wax candles above and around them. The diligent Viviana and Marcella lingered over their
espressos,
allowing Santino and Rozalia to come in and relieve them of the tedious and unglamorous cleaning up.

“No, it was you,” Vito roared with laughter, pointing an accusing finger that shook with his every cackle at his brother. “I distinctly remember it was you who got his head stuck in the railing when you tried to see down our cousin’s gown from the second floor.”

“No, no, you’re wrong,” Ignacio argued, laughing uproariously, as did they all, his defense too comically offered to be taken with any serious regard.

“It sounds like so—”

A discordant
bang, bang, bang,
burst upon the front door, choking off Zeno’s chortled words. The harsh sound at such an inappropriate time silenced them with a dampening stroke. It was rare for Venetians to call on each other during
pranzo,
and, unless invited out, most were home with their own families.

“I’ll get it.” Santino set a cumbersome pile of dirty dishes back on the table and started forward.

“No, I will.” Zeno rose, crossing through the dining room and into the front sitting room. He opened only one of the large double wooden doors that gave out onto a small
fondamenta
and the Rio dei Vetrai canal, and peered out into the waiting gloom.

The dimly-lit figure standing in the threshold was imperceptible to the others waiting apprehensively in the dining room and fairly inaudible save for a smattering of mumbled words. Within seconds, the door closed and Zeno returned, shuffling toward them, head down, consideration intent upon a small parchment unrolled in his hands. His pale eyes flicked back and forth then rose up, brows bunched incredulous upon his age-spotted forehead. Looking down, he read again. Without a word, he raised his arm, extending the letter toward his wife.

Viviana stood up fast, her chair flinging out behind her with a shriek that rent the pregnant air, and grasped at the missive. As she read the message, one hand rose up with a slow hesitant motion to cover her slack-jawed mouth. Her stricken gaze found her husband’s and held. The bubble of straining, silent apprehension drew near to bursting; it crackled unanswered in the air, until Viviana said one word.

“Sophia.”

Sophia blanched, pointing one trembling index finger at her own chest in stunned question. Oriana shot her sister a narrow-eyed stare, ticking her head toward their parents. Sophia stood and slogged toward them, her steps slow and plodding, her trepidation transparent on a visage distorted with ill-disguised fear. She took the vellum from her mother’s hand. The invitation was for two nights hence, to dine at the home of the noble da Fuligna family, a summons extended to Viviana, Zeno, and Sophia alone.

Sophia stared with bulge-eyed, blatant fear at her father and mother.

“But what is this? What does it mean?”

Zeno’s thin mouth sunk at the corners.

Viviana stared at her daughter. “You have been chosen.”

“Chosen?” Sophia’s shoulders rose high in bewilderment, her voice terse with annoyed uncertainty. “Chosen for what?”

Viviana turned again to her brooding husband, seeking a strength neither felt.

“Marriage.”

“Marriage?” Sophia hissed the word like a curse upon her tongue, as if she spoke of hell itself, her olive skin bursting with red splotches of anger. “
My
marriage? To whom?”

“It must be the oldest, Pasquale, I think his name is,” Viviana ruminated. She laid one hand gently upon Sophia’s back, rubbing small circles with comforting repetition. “It must be. The da Fulignas are a poor family. Noble, but poor. It must be the oldest who is allowed to marry, who must marry to infuse the family with some wealth and some heirs.”

The quiet in the once laughter-filled home became unearthly, disturbing in its foreboding. Sophia beseeched her family in silence; with outstretched hands and a frightened expression, she pleaded for someone to tell her it was all a mistake. Zeno stood with hands gripping the back of a tall armchair, his knuckles white under the stretched skin. His mouth splayed but no words, not a sound, came out.

Oriana rose, tip-toeing across the room to stand by mother and sister.

“Will
I
still be able to marry?” Her voice quivered with pending tears.

Sophia whirled, sharp words poised on the tip of her tongue like a drawn sword in her hand, words that would lash out with the power of her anger and frustration. How could her sister be so self-centered? Oriana’s face twisted with grief, tears welled in her eyes, and her lips trembled. A wave of pity and remorse washed over Sophia and she rubbed at her face as if to wash the ill-will from her thoughts.

On the islands, as through most of the Republic, the marriage portion settled on a daughter was exorbitant, ten thousand
ducats
or more, and few families could afford to make such a settlement for more than one of their female offspring. For others the convent awaited. The conventual dowry was almost as dear as that for marriage, yet its toll on women was much harsher. The price would be a great deal more egregious to Sophia’s sister. For Oriana, marriage was an idolized ideal of almost religious proportion. To not be married would be to shatter her, heart and soul.

“Shh, dearest, hush.” Viviana wrapped her other arm around the small trembling shoulders. “All our daughters will marry, have no fear. But perhaps it would be wise to choose a husband, before one is chosen for you.”

Zeno and Sophia averted their gaze under the force of Viviana’s subtle reprimand. They shared culpability in bringing them to this moment. Sophia had refused more than one fine proposal, offers from the sons of other Murano families. But she had rejected each and every one. True, she hadn’t loved any of them, but love—or its lack—had not been her reason for refusal. Sophia had no desire to give up the life she led, to leave her own family—or the glass—to become someone’s wife. Zeno’s guilt lay in letting her.

It was all too much to endure. Sophia ran, rushing out the back door, down the narrow flight of steps, and into the cobbled courtyard. She screeched to a halt under the star-laden sky, stopping short a few inches from the wellhead in the center of the compound, spinning around step by step, looking at the home she loved so dearly.

Opposite the house lay the small family garden where the sprouts of fresh vegetables were just beginning to peek out of the spring-warmed earth. On each side, buildings flanked the quadrangle; on the left, the columns and arches of La Spada; on the right, the back of yet another glass-making factory, that belonging to the Catani family. In the center of the courtyard, a
cisterna
, capped by carved marble. Every wonderful memory in her mind centered on this world, these people. She would have to leave it all, them, this magical place that was Murano. She could not bear the thought.

Sophia threw herself to the ground, her tears wracking her bent and folded body. She cried until she could cry no more, could do nothing but gasp for breath with short, gut-wrenching inhalations. As her breath returned, an eerie calmness stole over her, one born of disbelief and denial; she leaned up against the cool stone of the wellhead. From inside the house she heard Ignacio and Vito taking their leave with subdued salutations of gratitude, dishes clicking against each other as the clean-up continued, chairs scraping, a broom swishing across the stone floor.

The back door opened and a pale gold beam of light streamed out, its rectangular shape long and bright across the gloomy courtyard. Sophia heard the delicate steps as they made their way down the stairs and across the
terrazzo,
but she didn’t move. She knew who approached, without a glance.

With a groan and a creak and cracking of old bones, Nonna gingerly lowered her body to sit beside her granddaughter. For a long moment, she spoke not a word, lifting an age-spotted hand to caress Sophia’s hair with long, slow strokes of pure succor. Beneath their sustaining touch, true calm enveloped Sophia, as if her loving grandmother’s hands dispelled all her fear. When Nonna spoke, it was with the same gentle caress.

“There are times in our life that try us, that test our will and our strength.” The older woman spoke in a rhythm, a cadence like a prayer. Her voice was thin with age but strong with the burden of all she herself had endured.

Like so many other Venetian women of her age, she’d lost her husband in the Battle of Lepanto, the moral and military victory over the Turks that ended the war. She had raised her four children alone, keeping the glassworks alive and vital through managers until her sons took over. But the twisted hand of fate was not finished with her yet and Marcella had watched, and prayed and cared for the rest of her family, all save Zeno, as they suffered and died from the plague as it rampaged through Venice. The silky skin on Marcella’s face showed the lines of her advanced age, yet the blood that ran in her veins was powerful, fortified by all she had weathered and survived.

“Did you think you would stay here with your parents, making the glass, forever?”

Sophia’s head snapped up. She searched the familiar face with her swollen eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; in the adored features, she found no judgment, nothing but loving acceptance.

“Well, did you?” Nonna insisted with a prodding, direct gaze.

Sophia shrugged helplessly, nodding with innocent embarrassment. “
Sì
, I did.”

Nonna released a small sniff of air through her nose. “Silly girl. You must abandon such thoughts. For the sake of the family, you must do, as I did, what ever you must.”

Sophia knew he was there but she couldn’t look up at him, couldn’t glance at the face of the one who, above all, she cherished more than any other. Beneath her skilled hands, the
fritta
came to life, the base material from which all other glass emerged. Her mind was too full, in too much turmoil, to concentrate on any masterpiece tonight.

From the
calchera
, she had just removed the melted mixture of plant ash and sand silica. Now she would mix it with the cullet and a small dollop of manganese to create the
traghetada.
She lost herself in the repetitive motions. Once complete, she transferred the concoction into a
padèlla,
then placed these pans into a second furnace, close to a
bocca
where she could see them. She stared in at them as if there were answers beyond the soot-stained glass and the glowing ochre flames.

“You understand that if we try to refuse this, they could make our lives, and those of all our family, very difficult.” Zeno spoke with a dreaded finality, breaking the thin, delicate silence that had held them gently in its grasp.

Sophia nodded, saying nothing, unable to, biting her bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Zeno’s voice cracked and with it Sophia’s resolve.

Sophia’s heart rived at his tear-filled eyes, his quivering frown, the sadness of this man who loved her so.

“I let you make the glass because…because I wanted you to stay, always, even though I knew you could not. Like a son, I thought to keep you forever by my side.”

Sophia threw her trembling arms around her father; they clung to each other with the desperation of the drowning.