The Secret of the Glass (6 page)

With quiet grace, she carried a large jug of fresh water and the old dented mugs down the turning flight of rickety steps. Standing before the furnaces for hours on end, much of the glassmaker’s bodily fluids evaporated through their heat-dilated pores. To drink liters of water whenever possible had become as much a part of the process as the turning of the
ferri,
a necessity. One had to replace the precious liquids or become weak. Placing her delivery on an unused table in the corner of the spacious
fabbrica,
she perched herself on a small stool, smoothing down the straight skirt of her plain wheat muslin gown as she had day upon day for years, whenever she watched them make the glass.

All around her, as if she herself were the eye of a feral storm, the sweaty men toiled, intent upon their incessant and proficient motions, their pungent body odors blending with the tangy scent of burning wood. Most of the more than fifty men wore white cotton shirts—billowy-sleeved and high-buttoned—and tatty breeches; upon their chests lay leather aprons, and their hands were protectively encased in creased leather gloves. Stomping, booted feet thudded upon stone. Discarded pieces of molten glass hissed into buckets of water. Metal rods and tools clanged when dropped upon work tables. And behind the tumult, the deep masculine voices coalesced the disparate sounds into a symphony of diligence. The rhythm intoxicated Sophia; the pulse-beat of the only life she had ever known.

This factory—La Spada, The Sword—had belonged to the Fiolario family for centuries and, had she been born male, it would have been Sophia’s one day, but to be unmarried and in trade would be to be thought of as no more than a prostitute in disguise. Publicly she could do no more than marvel at her family’s legacy.

As large as a small field enclosed within stone walls, the workshop encompassed glass manufacture of all types. In clusters spread throughout the
fabbrica,
men and furnaces worked on their particular pieces: some created the
canne,
the long, thin rods of colored glass used as the basis for other glass products, while still more created blown vases and tableware or small intricate pieces for chandeliers and lamps. Sophia loved to watch those who made the delicate
filigrana a retortoli,
the simply-shaped glassware, most often vases and goblets, adorned with thread-like patterns of colored glass, creating an almost lace-like appearance.

Each station had its own set of crucibles; the first, called simply
il fornace,
served to heat the base material, the first kiss of fire. The second, named for its aperture, was the glory hole that reheated glass in the midst of formation or decoration, making it pliable between steps of the worker’s loving but dominating touch. The last was the long, tunnel-like oven used for annealing, the slow cooling process for finishing the glass. Called the
lehr,
this brick-lined furnace would house the piece for a few hours or a few days, depending on the type and size of a piece, cooling it slowly to protect it from harmful contraction.

Sophia poured three mugs of water and balanced them in her hands as she made her way down the center aisle of the factory, heading toward a grouping of men on the left side of the building.

More than one masculine, appreciative glance lit upon her passing figure. Her slim curviness flowed with sensual energy, an allure more efficacious for its very incognizance. The long folds of her gown, even this rough-hewn work gown, swayed seductively with each step, with each swing of her hips. Her exotic profile, angular and distinctive, began with the full, wide mouth, the strong Roman nose, and the tilted almond-shaped eyes. Despite her corporeal power, their glances were short, admiring yet respectful. Many thought of this young beauty as their daughter or their sister; it would be unseemly—perverse almost—to look upon her differently, regardless of her magnetic beauty.

Ernesto heeded her approach before the others in his team. He was a dear man and a cherished friend, like a beloved uncle to Sophia as she’d grown from a child to a young woman during his long years as a La Spada glassmaker. He smiled at her from beneath his close-cropped gray hair, splitting wide the tightly trimmed gray beard and mustache that gave him the wizened appearance of the
maestro
he was.

“
Buongiorno,
Sophi,” he called, his pale gray eyes lighting on her for a second as he turned back to the
pontello,
the four-foot-long metal rod in his hand, and the liquefied material at its end. As he spun the tool repeatedly, the honey-like liquefied glass gathered on the end of the rod.

“
Come stai?
” asked the two younger men who, with Ernesto, formed a
gruppo,
a typical glassworking team of three.

Dashing with burnished black hair and olive skin, Salvatore worked as the
serventi
, the assistant. Ernesto’s
garzone,
his apprentice Paolo, was physically a younger version of Salvatore and emulated much of the other worker’s mannerisms. Today they made the
murrine
, the multi-colored mosaic glass bowls that were so popular in Venice and abroad. Sophia awoke this day determined to learn more of this particular process and had sought them out with dogged, if covert, intent.

“Bene, bene,”
Sophia answered softly.

She had no wish to disturb them or insinuate her presence unduly. She had learned the secrets of the glass in just this way, blending in with the surroundings of the factory, becoming a seamless part of its scenery.

Her delivery made, Sophia made as if to leave; sidling a few steps away, her movements no more than a ruse. She leaned up against the back of an unused
scagno
, idly rubbing an oil-stained rag against its already clean surface. Her presence forgotten, with the uninterest bred by familiarity, the men took a few quick gulps of refreshment, then set back to their work. Ernesto concentrated on shaping the clear rods, Salvatore the painting, and Paolo the cooling. They labored in perfect unison, anticipating each other’s thoughts, linked to one another’s ways through years of working in close proximity, words of instruction mingling with random conversation.

“Do you need the stringer, Sal?” Paolo asked the man beside him.

With a small shake of his head, Salvatore refused the offered device, keeping his head bent to his work.

“Did you see her—Carina, I mean?” Paolo put the tool aside, and picked up another. “Were her breasts not the most beautiful you had ever seen? The skin, like silk, and the mounds, so firm and high.”

Salvatore gazed out at nothing in wonder for a moment, recalling the wondrous sight in his mind. “They were like something from my dreams.”

Sophia lowered her head and bit her smiling lips together, imprisoning her laughter. The men had forgotten her; their talk had turned to women as it so often did, especially among the young ones.

“Like juicy melons.” Paolo’s rapture transformed his plain face into euphoric beauty. “I longed for nothing more than to lap at their sweetness.”

“I have already tasted their nectar, many a time.”

The gloating call came from across the aisle. Salvatore and Paolo stared at the boastful Monte with bulging eyes and falling jaws.

“No? It cannot be!” they brayed together in protest.

“Certamente.”
The blond and wiry young man set his
pontello
down and swaggered across the passageway. “It was a night of consuming bliss. For me, it was her ass, so tight, so…so…” Monte struggled for succinct words. He formed his hands into arcs and held them out in front of his pelvis, gesturing crudely with hands and hips. The calls and jeers rang out all around as the men unerringly pictured what had taken place.

Embarrassed warmth rose on Sophia’s cheeks and, though the men became almost comical with their exaggerated gestures and gibes, she no longer felt like laughing. Pangs of longing and curiosity plagued her, a desperation with no name. There had been men in Sophia’s life, boys really, and with them she had discovered lips and hands. Never had the fire these men now spoke of scorched her, and yet she knew a craving for it.

“When
I
had her, we were not alone.”

Stunned into silence by the unfathomable utterance of a scrawny youth, every man within hearing ceased his work.

“She and her friend left my skin so raw I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”

For a taut moment the bevy of men studied Octavio, young and skinny, still with pimples maligning his sweaty face. He appeared too immature, too inexperienced to even speak with a single woman, let alone lie with two.

“Liar!”

“Magari!”

“Ridiculous!”

The laughter and caterwauling burst out as the men dismissed the incredulous story and its teller with their raucous cries, throwing their hands dramatically up in the air. Despite her best efforts Sophia laughed aloud at such outrageousness, caught up in the swell of hilarity and comradery.

Ernesto spun in her direction, vigilant once more to her forgotten presence by the tinkling of her feminine laughter, and chastised her with an indulgent smile.

“You shouldn’t be listening to this.”

“And you are all obsessed with sex,” she teased.

“You wound us, Sophia.” Paolo added his to the other loud protests and guffaws, one hand to each cheek with feigned indignation. “It is not true.”

“Oh, no?”

Incredulous, Sophia raised an accusing finger in the men’s direction, stalked over to the annealer—the large cooling chamber—and threw open its doors. Inside stood three beautiful, brilliantly finished pieces…two perfect round globe vases beside one tall powerful shaft.

The stunned men gaped in silence, their objections stifled in the face of such obvious sexual symbols.

“Dio mio,”
Salvatore hissed with incredulous urgency, “we are perverts!”

Sophia’s giggles joined the lusty male laughter. She closed the door upon the salacious items with a shake of her head as the men returned to their work.

“I know he saw me, in fact I’m quite sure he stared at me from the distance for the rest of the day.”

Oriana looked down her long straight nose at Lia as they set the table, their girlish talk punctuated by the clomp and clatter of plates and cutlery on the long, intricately carved oak board. Enticing aromas of boiling sauce and cooking meat wafted in from the next room.

“You live in a dream world, Oriana,” Lia scoffed, moving around her sister with barely an inch to spare. “The young Hapsburg prince could never have seen you among all those people. You never spoke a single word to him, though you said you would.”

“You’re wrong, I know you are.” Oriana threw down all the utensils still in her hand, the grating clatter shrieking through the air, and stomped her wooden-heeled shoe against the stone floor, the dissonance reverberating throughout the large house.

“Oh, no, I’m not. You’re a lunatic.” Lia, smaller and younger, yet not easily intimidated, stepped closer to her angry sister, jutting out her chin in equal defiance.

“What’s going on here?” Viviana stormed through the door that led from the
cucina
into the dining room, insinuating herself between her arguing girls as she was so often forced to do.

“She said the prince was staring at her.”

“He was!”

“See,
roba da matti
.” Lia tilted her head back and forth, crossed her eyes, and twirled a forefinger beside her temple.

“Fesso!”
Oriana tried to lunge past her mother, aiming at her sister with balled fists.

“Stai zitto!”
Viviana barked, shoving the girls apart, one hand on each of their firm bellies. “Be quiet, right now or you will never see another prince as long as you live. Your father will be here any moment for a nice quiet dinner and I will not have him besieged by this…this nonsense after a long day of work.”

Oriana’s eyes darkened as they narrowed at Lia, her tight mouth forming a thin line upon her reddened face. Lia stuck out her tongue. Grudgingly they separated.

At once, every door leading into the room opened; from the kitchen Marcella glided in, humming a merry tune, carrying a large, brightly painted ceramic bowl overflowing with steaming food. Through the outside door, Sophia made her way in, followed by her father and two young men, workers from the factory. Oriana and Lia began to snipe again. Zeno laughed and joked with his two guests. The house overflowed with people and noise like a pot set too long to boil.

“
Buonasera,
Mamma.” Sophia pecked a kiss on her mother’s cheek and placed another on the top of Marcella’s head.

“Ignacio and Vito’s mamma is away, so we are feeding them tonight, all right?” Zeno asked, greeting his wife with his own kiss, though why he posed the question when he had already brought the boys with him, Viviana did not know. It was not the first time the family fed some of its workers; it would not be the last.

“So much for a quiet dinner,” she grumbled.

“Che?”
Sophia turned back to her mother with a squeeze upon the older woman’s shoulder.

“Nothing, Sophia, no more than a bit of my own nonsense. Two more chairs and settings, Oriana,” Viviana said. “Sit. Eat. Everyone
mangia
.”

Noise flourished as the food was served. Chairs scraped the stone floor, and the family sat as they talked, argued, and laughed. Malvasia flowed from basket-covered decanters as Viviana and Marcella flitted back and forth from table to kitchen, heaping the slab with plate after plate of food. They served leg of mutton with
gnocchi,
roasted chicken stuffed with artichoke hearts and red peppers, hard-boiled eggs and crabmeat soaking in a steamy bowl of freshly churned butter. In the smaller ceramic bowls, there came
sarde in saor
—sardines marinated in sour sauce—olives drenched in spiced oil, and fresh
ciabatta
baked that afternoon.

The Fiolario household employed a small retinue of servants, a few loyal and hardworking villagers to do the cleaning and the gardening, not a full household like so many of the other Murano glass-making families. One middle-aged couple lived with them, assisting with the never-ending chores of a household and business. Santino and Rozalia had been with them for many years, since their own marriage more than two decades ago, dedicated to the family that treated them as their own. The family could afford more domestics if they chose—La Spada was one of the most successful, most affluent glassworks in all of Murano, earning more than enough to bear the cost of a whole contingent of servants, but Viviana preferred to do some things herself. The women of the house prepared the meals, especially the
pranzo
—the evening’s repast—with great care and expertise. With the abundant feast set before them, and a quick word of gratitude offered to God, the eating began in earnest.