The Glassblower of Murano by Marina Fiorato Read Free Book Online

heads. They all looked exactly the same. Corradino saw
them looking and smiled. He knew he had no need to
hide his work - they could look all day long and would
not know how he did it. Even he did not really understand what his fingers did as he thought of where this particular
droplet would hang on the finished piece.

    Corradino always went to look at the place where his
chandeliers would hang. He asked his customers endless
questions about how the room would be lit, he looked
at the windows and shutters, he even considered the
movement of the sunlight and the impact of the reflections from the water of the canal. And each time he
noted down his calculations in a little vellum notebook,
recording everything. This precious volume was now, at
the height of Corradino's mastery, crammed with his
ugly handwriting and his beautiful drawings. Numbers,
forming intricate measurements and equations, also jostled for room on the page as Corradino believed in the
power of the ancient science of mathematics. Thus, each
piece that he made and each advancement in technique
was documented so that he could develop his art by
making reference to his previous pieces. Now, having
finished the last unique glass drop, he took out his book.
He found the calculations he had taken from Santa
Maria della Pieta and made a quick quill sketch of his
finished piece. Even on the page the chandelier seemed
to stand out in a crystal relief.
    Corradino guarded the book well, wearing it next to his
skin at all times, but knew that even if his fellows could
see it, they would not be able to decipher its secrets. He
also knew that the other maestri laughed at him, and passed
around the jest that Manin even wore his book when he pleasured a woman. He was truly an unusual man. But a
genius, oh yes, truly a genius.

    The testament to his genius was in every palazzo in
Venice, every church, every grand eating house. It was in
every shining chalice he made, every mirror smooth as the
lagoon in summer, even every glass bubble or bonbon he
made as Carnevale favours. They all had the same glow of
an expensive gem. And now he knew that his newest work
would illuminate the dark, vaulted ceilings of the Santa
Maria della Pieta like no light they had ever seen. And it
would sing, as many of his pieces spoke or sang. At the
flick of a fingernail one of his cups would ring out the
tale of the gold that painted its rini - of Samarkand and
the Bosporus and the white hot days of eastern summer.
This chandelier would echo the music of the girls that
played in the Pieta. The girls that were orphaned, and had
no one to love or love them, so poured their love into
their music. His glass would sing back. It would tell them
that at least one among them was loved.
    The Pieta. Corradino smiled. Tomorrow he himself would
go to the Pieta with the chandelier droplets. The chandelier itself would travel ahead of him in a special, flatbottomed boat. Corradino had himself designed the packing
system for his precious candelabri - they were suspended
from the lid of a huge barrel filled with filtered lagoon
water. This meant that the fragile design was cushioned
from all knocks, and could survive all but a capsizement. Then to arrive in Santa Maria della Pieta, to be winched
from the barrel, water streaming from it in the godlight
of the windows, like an extension of the exquisite glasswork.
To fulfill its destiny, to light the church for perhaps centuries, to enable the girls to see the dark insects of the
music notes as they raced across the pages of their scores,
to enable the sublime noise that they made to the ultimate
glory of God. And Corradino would complete the process
as he painstakingly hung each drop in its proper place
before the final piece was winched to the ceiling.

    I myself will (finish it, as is fitting.
    It was the second greatest pleasure of this life of his. And
tomorrow it would be married to the first - seeing