I smack the tool into his palm.
“What are you making?”
Luca spins toward me
with his half-finished work.
“A betrothal glass.
It will be sent to the enameler
after this for decoration.”
Even though the stem
is yet to be completed,
the goblet Luca molds
is the flawless blue of deep ocean.
I step away from the fires
but cannot peel my eyes
from his work.
“What do you think they will mark
upon the glass?” Luca asks.
“How should I know?” I say.
I feel steamy and wipe my brow
with my apron.
“I thought you were the one
preparing to be married, Maria?”
he says with a smile that feels as
though he has knifed me to the wall.
This causes me to redden.
I begin to say, “How dare you presume
to know everything about—”
A shock of thunder cracks above us,
followed by heavy pounding on the roof.
I can waste not another word,
for the rain falls in waves.
And if my petticoat is soaked and stained of soot,
Mother will surely hail down upon me.
CAUGHT IN THE RAIN
The rain beads
upon my dress
like rotten pearls,
for I brought no cloak
to cover me.
Were I a few years younger
I might consider removing
my dress altogether and running home
in my camicia, but that might bring scandal
should it reach the ears of the government,
and I dare not cause my family
embarrassment or punishment.
Carlotta gasps to see me.
“Maria, your mother!”
“Please help me remove
this dress before I do any more harm.”
Laughter boils behind me
like hot oil hissing from an open pot.
“What about your fitting, dear sister?
How shall you wiggle your way
clear of that? How could Father
imagine you to be a lady?”
“Do my ears mistake me
or is my sister actually speaking to me?”
The char in my words
stops her clever smile midway.
“What do I care, Maria?”
Vanna squints.
“But Mother will know
you have been out of the house.”
This I know, but does my sister
need to keep tally on all I do wrong?
Has she nothing else to do?
FLOODING
The rain prevents travel
across the canal.
It cries down
upon the earth
with anger and passion.
Our furnace floods,
and everyone except me
is called to bail it
and preserve the fires and wood
so we will not lose precious time
we need to produce our glass.
Our palazzo echoes
like an empty drum,
gray and gloomy
as my disposition.
I almost wish to have
been in trouble over my dress
rather than tread water
in my isolated loneliness.
Thunder announces itself,
and a voice calls,
“Hello?”
“No one is here but me, Maria,”
I yell, and scurry to the front hall.
Luca’s hair drips a puddle
onto the floor. He slicks it back
with his hand, and his eyes
nearly shimmer silver in the half-light.
“Fetch your cloak. We must go
and move the supplies in the studio.”
“But Mother said I was to—”
“Hurry! The rain does not wait
for you to make debate.”
I speed up the stairs,
whirl on my cloak
as though it were a cape.
I grasp Luca’s hand
and rush into the downpour.
A quiver radiates up my spine.
I quickly release my hold.
“Follow me,” I say,
OUT OF HARM’S WAY
We lift the soda ash
and the manganese
onto the higher tables.
My cloak feels boulder weight
with rain and cold;
I shake it out in the corner
of the room.
“The rain rages still.
Let’s wait here
until she calms a bit.”
I nod, though I should return home,
for the studio is drafty,
but mainly it is strange
to be alone with Luca again.
A pregnant silence presides over the room.
“So your father was a master gaffer?”
“No,” Luca says.
“Your grandfather?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Uncle?” Again I receive a negative response.
“Well, then who?”
“You must delight in your own speech.”
Luca smiles at me.
I fold my arms and turn from him.
The mud on my shoes holds more interest.
“I have no family I know of. An old maestro
I swept floors for as a child apprenticed me.
But what does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” I say, but I cannot look
at him for fear I might reveal otherwise.
“Well, the rain stopped her throttle,
so we should go back,” Luca says.
I nod, for unlike Luca,
soon enough my family
will note that I am gone
and worry where I am.
CALLED TO DUTY
The flood fragmented,
like shells upon the shore,
a whole shipment
of orders Paolo and Luca
labored two weeks
with many apprentices
to prepare.
Even I am called
to staff the ship
and create a batch.
I smile as I dust off
our recipe book.
Father, steer my rusty
hands with your gentle sail.
I carry the mixture
down to the furnace.
Luca works inside alone.
I hesitate like a frightened bird,
circle and toe the ground
before I approach him.
“Where is your fancy gown?
Am I not worthy of your finery today?”
Luca’s smile is nearly a smirk.
“I might toss this batch
at your head, sir, were it not
three days in the making,”
I say, and set down my bucket.
“You have prepared this.
I thought your full occupation
was feathered caps and wooden shoes.”
He laughs. “What kind of glass
shall this mixture produce?”
“You know less than a flea.”
I turn to leave.
Luca grabs my arm. “I jest with you.
Please stay and watch a moment
if you like, and we’ll see together
what appears.”
“And if I don’t?”
I say under my breath,
but I sit down.
THE ART OF GLASSBLOWING
The magic of glass
resides in alchemy,
the correct mixture
and preparation
turning stone, ash, metal,
fire, and breath
into clear solid beauty.
The craft of glass
relies less on tools
of the bench
and more on training
the mouth and lips
of the gaffer himself,
the one whose
breath molds the cup
or the vase.
The art of glass
is not color or clarity
or shape alone.
Art births from the mind.
Father always said
a true artist sees
each piece as unique,
as an individual.
Luca preheats the blowpipe
in the furnace’s hottest chamber,
then gathers the molten moile
like honey on a dipper.
He rolls his gooey tube,
glowing like a spark turning to flame
on the marble marver’s flat surface,
before he dares bring the pipe
to his lips
and blow a bubble
of bright orange-yellow
trimmed in red,
which balloons on the edge
of his tube.
Luca swings round his punty
to his bench and light streams
behind him as if he were an angel.
His jack, blocks, tweezers, paddle,
and shears surround him,
but he reaches for no tool.
He closes his eyes
and imagines the pitcher
in perfect clarity.
It is as though I meet him
for the first time
as he begins to create
his glass art,
and he looks at me
and says,
“The batch is perfect, Maria.”
FAMILY SERVICE
Mother examines the sleeve
of my new gown.
“You missed some dirt right here.”
Her eyebrow rises like a shadow.
“Remind me again why
you were caught out of doors?”
“I thought I heard Paolo call
for help during the flood rain.”
Vanna’s mouth opens, her tongue
unfurling like a snail popping
out of its shell, but she says nothing.
“Still, stain or not, this is the latest
fashion, and you should wear it
when you meet the next suitor.”
“I thought perhaps Uncle and Marino
would meet with him instead.”
“There is far too much work
to do because of the flood.
Besides, I am not sure they
are well equipped to choose
a partner for you,” Mother says,
as she untangles my hairpiece.
“This is dreadful.”
I nod. “What more can I do to help?”
“Why, Maria, wonderful that you
should ask. Why don’t you
take this hair and reweave it?”
I sink as lead in water.
I hoped Mother would let me
continue to help with the batches.
I accept the hairpiece
with a half smile.
“I’ll set right to work.”
AT SUPPER
I don’t care much
for the pot that Carlotta prepares,
but Uncle Giova feasts upon the bones.
“Have you been away at sea?
A starving sailor might eat less than you.”
Marino pokes at Uncle.
Uncle laughs as he licks his bone.
“A healthy appetite is good for the soul,
dear nephew.”
Mother motions for me to sit more erect
in my chair. I expect Vanna to snicker
as a snorting pig, but she just demonstrates
what Mother meant by “erect”
when Mother’s eyes are averted,
just like the old Vanna would have.
Paolo sneezes and we all say,
“May the spirits be blown away,”
because that is what Father always said
whenever someone sneezed.
Luca seems puzzled or maybe
just left out,
like a child without playmates
watching other children
toss around a ball.
Uncle’s tone switches from jovial
to officious, from golden hues to ash.
“Seems you had a fine day, Luca?”
“I finished your cups,
if that is what you mean.”
Luca does not look up from his bowl.
“All of the old orders from London
are completed?”
Uncle Giova sets down his bone.
Luca nods as he twirls on his cloak.
“Thank you for the meal,”
he says to Mother.
As soon as the door clangs closed,
Mother covers her mouth with her hand.
“Well, how impertinent not to remain
until we are finished. Where did he need
to fly in such haste?”
Paolo crosses to the window.
“He returns to the furnace.
I suppose we are just not fit
to dine with Signore Luca,
not being from the papal line.”
Everyone laughs except for me.
But I wonder if perhaps Luca strays
from our family table
for reasons we Baroviers
are too fortunate to understand.
SUNLIGHT
1
When Luca fails to appear
the next morning for our earliest meal,
I hide bread and pears beneath my skirt.
How I will sneak the food
to Luca, I know not.
Mother pulls at her fingers
as though she would pluck
them from her hands
like garden weeds.
She eats not a thing,
which signals Vanna and me
to hurry into our day.
I ask, “Mother, might I practice
walking outside in my new high shoes?”
I expect her to forbid me.
But Mother waves a gesture
of indifference, her mind
sailing on some distant sea.
After Paolo and Marino and Vanna
set to the fornica I slip down the stairs,
my shoes in hand so I make not a clack.
Mother and Uncle pace the parlor.
I feel like a house rat
creeping along the wall
so as not to be caught or trapped.
“He works today cleaning
and preparing the second fornica?”
Mother begs with her wide eyes
to be contradicted.
“We made a contract,
and Luca has the day
to do as he pleases.”
Uncle Giova covers Mother’s
fluttering hands.
2
Outside, the sun warms my head.
And like a flower opening
its bloom after rain,
I cannot contain my smile.
I stare at the furnace door,
debate knocking,
then call out, “Luca?”
No one answers
so I creak into the cave
of the second fornica.
Cobwebs, dust,
and an overall dank odor
permeate the room.
My eyes adjust to the shadows,
and I discover Luca slumped
in a corner, his eyes shut.
I tap his shoulder,
and he sprouts awake.
“Maria, what are you—?
Could they not afford to buy you
a complete dress?
&nb
sp; This one seems not to cover your chest.”
I launch the breakfast
I saved for him into his lap.
“It is the latest style.”
I feel heated even in the colder room
and fear a flush paints my cheeks.
I cover my face with my hands.
He bites into a pear.
“Thank you. I am famished.
There is more work here
to be done than I supposed.”
“I could help you.”
The words dribble from my lips
before I consider how
I might be able to do so.
“It is probably better that you don’t.”
A pang of anger stirred with pain
clamps my center.
He continues, “But if you should visit,
I would always welcome you in.”
Luca’s eyes stun me.
I can neither move nor speak,
like one under a spell.
I finally nod.
A sticky web caps my hair.
My mouth tastes woolen,
and I cannot think what to say.
I open the door and half stumble
into the street.
3
I smile,
as ornate and obvious in my good cheer
as a jeweled and feathered hat.
Vanna nearly knocks me over
in the street.
She shakes her head.
“Where have you been?”
Even she cannot
vanquish my joy.
“Practicing my walk
in these high shoes,” I say.
“And it is a lovely day.”