Sisters of Glass Page 3

  behind my first suitor.

  “Did he have a stench

  about him?” Mother asks.

  “Indeed,” I say, and

  we collapse in laughter,

  and Mother feels

  like a friend

  for the first time.

  GIOVANNA’S SONGS

  disappear like raindrops

  into the sea. Only sad notes

  sob against her pillow at night.

  This morning I want to say,

  “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  or “Can I help you shine

  that bowl?” I clear my throat

  of its toads and attempt to hum,

  but my melody is a boorish grunt.

  I ask Vanna, “Can you sing

  that hymn from Mass?”

  Giovanna spears me

  with one sharp “No.”

  A fish so dead I cannot flail

  but slump to my bed,

  my eyes spin blank and glassy.

  Who stole my sister, and why?

  I tiptoe to the window

  in my large straw hat.

  People gather below

  and point up at me.

  A woman shakes

  her head. “No, it’s not her.”

  And they all stride on.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I raise my voice like

  a high fierce wind.

  “I will go away,

  but must you punish them?”

  I gesture to the street below.

  Vanna widens her lips;

  a scratchy sound

  like a poorly bowed violin

  escapes her throat.

  “I cannot sing.”

  She turns from me,

  weeping into her hands.

  “There’s something from hell about me.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  I try to garland my arms

  around her neck.

  “Do not touch me.”

  Giovanna brandishes

  her brush as a club.

  “You have cursed me already.

  Just leave me alone.”

  I wanted to share

  my story of the awful Debratto

  with her, but I guess I will be solo

  on this, only Mother to guide me.

  OUR FAMILY NEEDS HELP

  Marino clasps Mother’s hands.

  I know I should return

  to my bedchamber,

  that the scene in the parlor

  is private, but my feet

  smolder into the floor.

  “Paolo cannot handle

  all of our orders.

  He spends hours a day

  with that courtesan Beatrice,

  bewitched by her swooshing skirts.

  He has lost focus.”

  Marino inhales, then blows

  out his breath

  like he was working a punty.

  “There is a gaffer all the families

  bid to attain right now named Luca.

  Giova believes if we sell off

  our second fornica we might secure him.”

  Marino looks at Mother

  as if he were a child of five.

  He kneels and kisses her hands.

  Mother shakes her head.

  “Your father asked me never to sell

  the second furnace.”

  “But we cannot afford materials,

  cannot staff it; the kilns

  are in disrepair.” Marino sighs.

  “I do not want to sell it either,

  but what else can we do?”

  Mother rises and purses her lips.

  “What if we give this Luca

  a piece of the business,

  make him half owner

  of the second furnace

  instead of selling it?”

  “Make him, who comes

  from the lower labor class,

  like one of our family?”

  Marino shakes his head.

  “That could be dangerous.

  Luca may not hold the same

  respect for our family name

  and business.”

  I inch down the stairs.

  Uncle Giova, silent as a chalice,

  eyes the action from a corner chair.

  Uncle finally speaks.

  “On the other hand,

  giving Luca a sizable stake

  in our fornica

  could build loyalty.

  I am not sure he will receive

  such offers from other families,

  seeing as he has no known background.

  Your mother’s plan has merit.

  I will propose this to Luca.”

  Marino pounds the table,

  but then like the sky

  after thunder and illumination,

  he stills and quiets.

  “Let it stand that I was against

  this plan, but I will do my all

  to make it work.”

  Mother hugs her son.

  “Let me speak to Paolo.

  I will present this as a gift

  not a dagger.”

  All heads nod.

  I turn and scamper up the stairs.

  Giovanna glares down at me

  with a wicked toothy grin.

  “Maria, why are you standing

  there on the stairs?” she says

  so it echoes.

  TROUBLE

  My sister’s spite

  poisons my veins.

  Mother banishes me

  to the tower of my room.

  I must pray my prayer beads

  all day because my ears

  burned to hear

  what they should not.

  But worse,

  Mother speaks to me

  like a child not her own,

  no camaraderie in her tone.

  Giovanna never tattled on me,

  rattled her tail,

  spit venom in my face, before.

  But because I must marry?

  I grab her favorite brush,

  dangle it out the window.

  It would fragment

  should I release it.

  Vanna would do this to me.

  But I cannot let it go.

  I lay the brush on her vanity

  and open my armoire.

  What I want to do

  is melt these dresses

  in the fornica!

  I want my sister back.

  I long to tell her about Luca,

  not have her delight

  because I am a caged bird—

  with nothing to see but old men,

  with nothing to do, nothing I can draw,

  and no one to talk to.

  I yank my hair

  and soak my pillow

  in a storm of tears.

  Mother’s scalding eyes,

  so disappointed.

  Will she trust me again?

  And really,

  what is wrong with me?

  Why can’t I just do

  what my father wanted?

  SECOND SUITOR

  A tall man with a speckled beard

  and a senator’s crimson cloak

  gaits up our walk

  as though he were heralded

  into our home like a duke.

  He sniffs the air,

  brushes off his coat,

  and his manservant

  hands my mother

  a box of oranges and pears

  from the Far East.

  I peer into the box;

  the oranges are the size

  of a baby’s hand.

  “My family, as you may know,

  trades silks,” Signore Langestora explains.

  “I am in charge of the shades

  of blue we purchase. I will send

  you over a bolt of our latest azure

  so that Maria may have a dress made

  for the next time we meet.�
��

  Mother smiles at each word

  that spits forth from this man’s mouth.

  She did not heed my father as attentively.

  Never once does Signore Langestora

  glance in my direction;

  it is as though he courts Mother.

  I suppose this is customary.

  I seal my mouth,

  do not want to disgrace my family.

  A sand martin flutters outside,

  beating her wings against the pane glass

  as though she wishes to be let in.

  At first I want to signal her away,

  far away from our house,

  let her know that in this place

  she will feel trapped

  by the ceilings and closed doors.

  But the bird flits foolishly at the window,

  tired of the wind and waves,

  looking for a cage inside

  our warm safe home.

  She wishes to land, not

  hop from one branch to the next,

  endlessly hungry.

  “Maria would see the world,”

  Signore Langestora says,

  “as we would spend half the year at sea.

  I assume she is accustomed to travel?”

  “Well, actually”—Mother hesitates—

  “she has never left Murano.”

  “Fifteen and never off this little island?”

  He slaps his thigh with a laugh.

  “Well, we will test her sea legs, then.

  I will be back in three days

  to discuss the arrangements

  with Marino and Giova.”

  He kisses Mother’s hands,

  nods to me,

  readjusts his cloak and hat,

  and exits.

  I understand most business transactions,

  but what just transpired

  I cannot quite comprehend.

  THE ARRIVAL OF LUCA

  No procession with banners

  or festival of boats,

  but Carlotta prepares a feast

  worthy of the Podesta,

  the political leader of Murano—

  appetizers of grapes, figs, and

  Berlingozzo, followed by courses

  of pigeon with trout, veal with sausage,

  and my favorite, capon.

  My stomach squeals

  for the dishes to be served,

  though this new-fashioned corset

  with its tightly laced strings

  will scarcely allow me

  to sample each one.

  I peek out my window

  like a curious bird

  twisting her head halfway round

  until my neck strains.

  Giovanna just brushes her hair.

  I expect trumpets to sound,

  doors to unhinge,

  but we are simply called to meal,

  as our guest has arrived.

  Luca’s back reveals

  a craftsman’s brown cloak,

  nothing to note;

  still, the twenty-two-year-old

  ruffles his shoulders and awaits

  Uncle’s servile assistance

  with his drapings

  as though Uncle were his manservant,

  when properly it is Luca

  who should kneel

  to my uncle.

  My uncle handles Luca’s cape

  as Marino presents Giovanna and me,

  but Luca pays kinder eyes

  to the canal rats.

  So as Luca and all swivel round,

  I thrust my tongue at Luca’s better side.

  Preparations for this meal

  three days in the making,

  and our guest offers no comment

  on the food or glassware we serve.

  We ought to pour him dog urine.

  “Did you not like your capon, Luca?”

  “I found it salty.”

  He snubs his piggish nose

  and searches the table

  for the source of the question.

  “What you taste is thyme,”

  I say, before I can consider

  practicing decorum.

  And after consideration

  I determine God

  will forgive me.

  “And rosemary,”

  he says, and stands.

  “Who is speaking?”

  I rise and curtsy.

  Luca’s gray eyes whirl.

  Mother’s voice lashes.

  “Maria, apologize now!

  Then take your leave.”

  I pick up my skirts

  with verve and clamor,

  but I hold quiet my tongue.

  Whether or not

  Mother forgives me.

  TIDES OF IMPORT

  Mother forgets to be angry

  with me,

  because like an ocean claiming the beach

  at high tide,

  Luca moves into and then overtakes

  the second fornica

  as though it belongs only to him.

  Marino wears

  a mask of I-told-you-so,

  until he realizes

  Mother’s nerves leave her faint.

  Uncle Giova

  tells Mother not to worry so much,

  that tides shift back.

  I overhear her frantic

  “But at the speed he is producing glass,

  Luca will raise money

  to open the second fornica within months.

  I am beginning to regret

  that I did not heed Marino and keep the business

  within our family alone.

  Perhaps I disrespect Angelo’s wishes in this way.”

  Mother bites her lower lip.

  “Even so.” Uncle hushes her. “Please,

  do not

  let your children catch wind of your fears.”

  So instead

  Mother obsesses over

  “Where is the bolt of azure silk

  Signore Langestora promised?”

  Did the boat capsize?

  Did Carlotta’s ears miss

  the knock of delivery?

  Mother paces the front hall

  like a hungry seabird

  combing the shore for scraps,

  back and forth,

  back and forth.

  I inch down the stairs.

  Mother’s head hangs limp

  as wet clothes on a line.

  “Where is he?”

  Mother asks my brothers.

  Paolo snaps,

  “I would have taken up

  swords with him,

  but Signore Langestora

  is missing as frost in heat.”

  Marino adds,

  “He has likely sailed

  to the East. Wherever he is,

  he does not intend

  to honor his word.”

  “I had hoped this was settled,”

  Mother says to Marino.

  “But we shall have to start all over.”

  “Do not fret,” Marino says.

  “It will be an easier task

  now that Luca is here.

  His work is as fine as they say,

  and he produces pieces

  as fast as lightning

  branches the sky.

  A true genius, I tell you.

  Paolo and I can interview

  noblemen for Maria tomorrow

  and with more care.”

  Marino offers Mother his kerchief.

  “Oh no, I shed no tears over

  that Signore Langestora

  and his false promises.

  He shall regret not marrying my daughter.”

  I’d sooner swallow glass

  than marry that thin-nosed fish-eye

  or any man who insults my family.

  MY ESCAPE

  So I am not wanted

  by a man of crimson cloak

  or my sister;

  w
hy should I care?

  I am hard as glass,

  and any dare break me

  or cross me

  shall be cut.

  I sneak past my mother

  and my brothers,

  refuse the prison of my room.

  I trail the servants who stoke

  the furnace fires,

  their arms choked with wood.

  They hasten me away.

  None permit me near the flames,

  but I wait, patient as a monk.

  And when the servants saunter away

  I unlatch the furnace door.

  Luca alone stands within,

  and he waves me inside.

  A BRIEF RESPITE

  “You are quite dressed

  for the furnace this morning,”

  Luca says without lifting his eyes.

  Why does he not address me

  like the lady I am, as he should?

  I feel my cheeks begin to ire pink

  but will not be flustered.

  I brush my hands

  on my new velvet petticoat.

  “Yes, well, Mother and I were to—

  oh, never you mind.

  Where is Paolo?”

  I ask the question

  though I know well

  my brother is at the palazzo.

  Luca shrugs and beckons me forth.

  I might turn and run

  or disobey him out of spite,

  but the furnace fire

  warms me,

  and in his work clothes

  Luca loses a hint of his bitter smell.

  “Maria, bring me the pincers.”

  Luca stretches out his hand.

  “Unless you are too fair

  for such work.”

  Why I fasten on an apron

  I can’t exactly say.

  Perhaps it is because Luca

  has remembered my name,

  but more likely it is lack

  of anything better to do.