The Glassmaker's Daughter

Chapter 3-3

Doge Donato nodded and smiled, agreeing, showing no outward response to the bitter undertone of Zeno’s words.

“Sì, sì, certamente, of course. I hope you enjoy the rest of this wonderful day.”

He bowed and the Fiolarios, recognizing their dismissal, bowed or curtsied in reply, happy to return to the merriment.

The family withdrew, merging into the rambunctious crowd.

“Their displeasure is palpable, do you not think?” Donato asked of his obeisant entourage.

“The glassworkers are angrier than they have ever been,” an older man responded, stooped and gray, his bent body a shapeless form under his mantled black robe.

“All of them, Cesaro?” the Doge asked.

“For the most part, yes,” the statesman said with obvious hesitation. “There are a few who help us, who are as concerned as we that other lands will not develop the technique and take away some of their revenue, but they too grow leery of our methods.”

“If they unite, their power will grow,” said a simply robed, younger man, a member of the larger Maggior Consiglio. “We must pull the strings tighter.”

Doge Donato’s head spun to the fair-haired, fresh-faced man before him. “We are already a land divided by our difficulties with the Pope and the Empire. How many more confrontations can we balance at once?” Donato put his hands together, closing the long fingers, one upon the other. What looked like a clasp of prayer was, in truth, a gesture of impatience, an attempt to contain his growing frustrations. “What began with the sordidness of Saraceno, the Canon of Vicenza, now rages over two perverted clerics, but the essence of the dispute is the same. We must retain control of our citizens, clergy or not. We are Venetians first, Christians second.”

A short and husky man robed liked his colleagues, shifted his gaze between his leader and the retreating flock of Fiolarios. “The divisions are distinct—those who align themselves with you and Father Sarpi and those who pledge devotion to Rome through the Papal Nuncio. It is no longer a secret who among the senators is on which side. There are meetings every moment of every day. It is clear who is with whom and who receives the couriers from Rome.”

“Sì, Pasquale.” Donato nodded solemnly. “I am besieged with their admonitions myself, and now I am castigated over the senatorial decree forbidding all gifts and bequests to churches and monasteries.”

“They see the loss of taxes, nothing more.” The man attempted to calm and soothe the disturbed Donato.

Pasquale da Fuligna was no longer young but not yet old. He had been a part of the large Grand Council, comprised of every nobleman over the age of twenty-five, for eleven years. He had learned much in that time and his loyalty and devotion toward Doge Donato solidified in their like-minded beliefs. That Pasquale’s father, Eugenio, a council member for more than thirty years, hated the Doge and everything he stood for, added to Pasquale’s inducement to stand by Donato.

“It is not about the taxes, it is about what is decent and acceptable,” Donato barked, frustration peaking, raising his hands in agitation. He dropped them to his sides, regretting his sharp tongue for the curious stares it brought them. He spied another group of men. “Is that not Signore Galileo with Father Sarpi?”

“It is, Your Honor,” answered more than one of the Doge’s entourage.

“Then by all means,” Donato straightened his shoulders as if to throw off the weight pushing down upon them, “let’s join them, shall we?”

Pasquale smiled his rough smile, bowing with mischievous acquiescence to the Doge. “By all means, Your Honor, it is a hot day, but not yet too hot.”

Zeno stopped and looked back, finding the glare of the nobleman still burning upon their backs. The small, beady black eyes continued to follow them, one of the young girls in particular, but which, Zeno couldn’t fathom.

“Come, Zeno, come.” Viviana plucked on her husband’s arm, alert to his wariness. “Let us stroll Le Mercerie and buy some trinkets for the girls.”

Zeno nodded, his face remaining somber. He took a few steps and stopped short. “Where shall we go next?” he asked Viviana.

His wife started to laugh. “Along the marketplace, as you just agreed.”

“Yes … uh, yes, of course.” Zeno sputtered and faced the clock tower poised at the beginning of the long thoroughfare lined with stalls.

Viviana frowned but fell in step beside him.

The day had become a late summer’s evening and a glowing umber dusk fell upon them; the crowd began to thin as groups of friends and families returned to their homes to share a convivial cena, the last meal of the day. Oriana and Lia skipped with pleasure as their parents led them toward the marketplace; these younger girls rarely had the opportunity to shop along the colorful stalls that lined the cobbled walkway.

Unlike the Grand Canal that twisted far west then swerved back east to flow from the piazza to the Ponte de Rialto, Le Mercerie traversed a much straighter line from the same point to point. Though shorter, each side was crammed with booth after booth of the finest wares available on Venice. As soon as they entered the shop-lined lane, Oriana and Lia flitted from one side to the other like hummingbirds in a sumptuous garden, tempted by the silk ribbons, strands of gold, yards of embellished fabrics, and sweet treats on offer.

“Over here, Oriana, look at this.” Lia beckoned.

“No, this way, come see this,” her sister answered.

“Sophia, Sophia!”

A trilling call reached out to them from the clock tower tunnel.

The family stopped, pivoting to the summons.

“Damiana!” Sophia called back with unbounded joy as she spied her friend rushing forward. The girls embraced, kissing each other with the great fondness of lifelong friends. “We have been looking for you all day.”

“And I you, but who could find anyone in that crowd.” Damiana’s lilting voice matched her countenance perfectly; petite and fair, her cornflower eyes sparkled under the mass of dyed strawberry blonde hair. Like so many other Venetian women, Sophia’s best friend had succumbed to the style raging through the land. “Buona sera, Signore and Signora Fiolario. Come stai? Have you been enjoying your day? Hello, Nonna.” The young girl offered her greetings to her friend’s family, with a special embrace for Sophia’s grandmother, chirping away like a small, excited bird, allowing them no chance to offer their own salutations.

Damiana continued with excitement. “My parents are not far behind.”

She pointed back toward the entrance to the Mercerie.

Following her gesture, the family spotted Franco Piccolomini, owner of the Colombina Bianca, the White Dove glassworks, and his wife, Ginevra. Zeno and Viviana waved, stopping to wait for the other couple with whom they had shared so much of life.

The enlarged, enthusiastic group continued their promenade through the brightly lit marketplace, ablaze as cubicle upon cubicle lit their rows of torches in the growing night. Damiana joined with Oriana and Lia as they rushed from stall to stall, oohing and aahing at each new fascination. Only Sophia remained with the older group who strolled calmly along.

“Why do you not join them, cara?”

The voice of her father thrummed in her ear and Sophia found Zeno striding beside her.

“Is there nothing you want, no object you desire?”

Sophia smiled at her father, her wide, full-lipped mouth stretching from ear to ear. Her sooty, thick-lashed eyes studied the treasured face before her, then found those of her mother and grandmother laughing and talking with the Piccolominis. Her attention shifted, enticed by the giggles and coos from her sisters and her dearest friend.

“There is nothing more I desire.” Her low voice aflame with emotion, opening her arms wide in an encompassing gesture. “I wish for no more than what I have right here.”

Zeno, touched by his daughter and her love, put an arm around Sophia’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Already? Must we return home already?” Lia whined like a little girl; she slumped her shoulders and twisted her little curved lips into a moue. This late at night, worn out by the stimulation and fullness of the day, she behaved more like a little girl than not.

“Yes, bambina, we must.” Viviana put her arm around her youngest daughter, her baby, soothing her with her pacifying tone. “We have celebrated, shopped, and eaten much more than we should. The stars glitter in the sky and even the moon begins to long for its bed. Let’s go home.”

“Sì, Mamma.” Lia capitulated with a resigned shrug.

The northern tip of the Mercerie ended at the foot of the Rialto Bridge. The family and their friends, satiated by the late-night supper they’d shared, crossed the short distance to the Grand Canal and waited to board a gondola for the journey back to Murano. A popular boarding point in the city, many of the slim vessels waited for passengers, the party-going population had dwindled as the night morphed into morning. They bobbed fluidly on the torch-lit waterway, the lamps’ lights like twinkling stars upon the black, shimmering surface. Oriana and Lia checked each face, but Pietro, their handsome gondolier from earlier in the day, was not among the oarsmen. This time an older man piloted them home, not quite as dashing, in a jerkin that bulged precipitously around the middle, but with a surprising and clear baritone that soothed the weary revelers.

As they passed under the Rialto Bridge, Zeno studied every detail of the structure in the dim light. This latest version of the single dry crossing point on the Grand Canal was still new, finished no more than a decade ago, but it far surpassed those that had come before it, and the Venetians considered it a wonder, no one more than Zeno himself. While the idea to rebuild it had begun as much as a century ago, the slow-moving administration of the Serenissima had taken their time in seeing the project completed.

“Do you know,” Zeno began, still looking up at the architectural wonder above him, “that Michelangelo himself submitted a design in the contest that would determine its form?”

“Is that right?” Franco replied, his large belly protruding over his stumpy legs. He knew the story, as did most Venetians, but for this friend, he feigned interest, though he did so with his heavy lids almost closed.

“Sì, ‘tis true. But it was that of Antonio da Ponte that they chose after years and years of study.” Zeno marveled at the artistry of the architecture, appreciating da Ponte’s work as only one artist can for another’s.

The single-span design that took seventeen years to fashion stretched more than forty-eight meters across and twenty-two meters wide, constructed out of the pure white Istria stone so favored in Venice. Each side ramp, distinctive with graceful arching arcades and sturdy columns, led up to the central kettledrum supported by Doric columns. On either side of the portico, along its massive ramps, shops of all kinds had sprung up, swelling the state’s coffers with their share of the revenue. Upon its carved façade, the reliefs of St. Mark and St. Theodore crowned the arch.

Their gondolier pushed them farther and farther along the canal, leaving behind supple ripples bouncing the shimmering torchlight onto the underside of the bridge.

“The great Michelangelo himself proposed a design. He entered it in the contest alongside the others,” Zeno said as the bridge diminished behind them.

Viviana tapped his arm lightly. “Don’t tease, Zeno, we are all tired. Hush now.”

Her eyes were closed as she half-dozed in the early morning hours, the gray-haired head of the slumbering Marcella resting upon her shoulder. She didn’t see the change on her husband’s face.

Sophia, still wide awake, watched and listened to her father’s every word; his face blank, his gaze vacant and confused. Unsure of what just happened, her stomach flopped and churned as if it knew a terrible secret she did not.