“You hide the truth.”
Giovanna pulls a cobweb
out of my hair.
“I saw you come out
of the second furnace.
What were you doing there?”
My smile trampled, I turn to silence,
that great stone wall bricked
between me and my sister.
But Vanna smiles kindly at me.
“Be careful,” she says,
and she tucks a loose tendril
behind my ear.
I nod, though my face
must look bewildered
as a beached whale.
Has my sister
decided to return
and the devil
who replaced her
begun to take leave?
ALONE AT LAST
I slide from beneath my mattress
my hidden sketchbook,
and as if possessed
my hand dashes across the paper
until what emerges
from the swirls of chalk
is Luca’s face.
His eyes like perfect glass
reflect light off the page.
What surprises me most
is that I draw him in a furnace
I have never visited.
A room buzzing with apprentices
where Luca aids an old man.
Luca is a child, an orphan
whose plight I do not know,
but my mind’s eye
envisions the scene complete
and precise.
BY ANY MEANS?
Mother and Uncle and Marino
pile so many orders
upon Luca’s back
that he cannot leave
the main fornica to eat,
scarce restore the second one.
I flurry and pace before my window,
a winged dove
trapped behind a glass pane.
Paolo leaves the furnace
with a cartload of beakers,
and I must find a way
to dodge Mother and Vanna.
If only I could fly
or scale the wall.
I hitch one leg up
onto the window’s ledge
but then pull it back.
“Why are you spying on Luca?”
Vanna startles me.
I did not notice she had entered the room.
My heartbeat runs like horse hooves,
and again I feel hot.
I say, “I believe there is something
about Luca I must discover.”
“Yes, something you must discover
about Luca,” Vanna says
with an odd wink.
“Sneak out the servants’ door,
and I shall tell Mother
you are resting.”
I should not go,
misleading Vanna so,
but I stumble into my shoes
and out the door.
LUCA, ARTIST IN RESIDENCE
Luca is at work when I enter.
I settle myself into a corner
of the room.
I wish to have my sketchbook tonight,
for Luca magics into being
three crystal platters for the Doge’s palace,
each more radiant than the last.
Watching him reminds me
of observing my father
as he perfected a new recipe
to make our glass flawless.
A tear brims my eye to think of my father.
I can only imagine
what ache Luca must feel,
never even knowing
his own family.
Luca says nothing to me,
but I know he knows
I have come,
and I know
he is glad that I am here.
QUIET MADNESS
I rustle Vanna from sleep.
“Did Mother come check on me?”
“Yes, but not to worry.
I told her you were resting.
A new suitor visits tomorrow.
I have laid out your dress
and fixed your hairpiece.”
Vanna’s eyes spider red,
and her face blanches with exhaust.
“But you have so much work
of your own.”
I kiss her hands.
Vanna rises upon her elbows,
suddenly more alert.
“Just tell me the truth
about Luca.”
“What do you—”
She clasps my hands.
“How do you feel about him?”
I am grateful the night shields
my lying eyes.
“He is a very good gaffer,
and I feel sorry for all
the work he has to do
because of the flood,” I say,
and throw my blanket
around myself.
I wish I could trust Vanna.
But even then, what would I tell her—
that when I am with Luca
I long to be molten moile upon his punty,
something he turns to beauty,
a work of art he prizes above all else?
I could not even say this
to the sister I knew before.
It sounds like madness.
And it would likely cause
my family unrest
were I to tangle myself up
with Luca.
“I was wrong, then,”
Giovanna sighs,
and within minutes
I hear the small popping blows
of her sleeping breath.
FULL OF FEATHERS, SHORT OF HAIR
Another old stuffed shirt
Mother and I greet
in the parlor,
aged to be my father
not my husband.
An odd, pudgy man,
why does he not cover
his skull, as he is bald
in the center of his head?
He catches me staring
at his gleaming scalp
bordered by tufts of hair
like sad patches of wiry weeds.
Signore Borosini runs frantic strokes
over and over the top of his head
as if he were polishing it.
I smile at him with a wink
so I can swallow my laughter.
Mother’s toe taps mine.
The rain rages against our palazzo,
and I realize I have not heard
one bit of this conversation.
Mother says, “Maria is quite
an accomplished sketch artist.”
I open my mouth,
anticipating the question
what do I sketch or
will I show him something.
“Oh.” Signore Borosini clears his throat.
“Well, in the shipbuilding business
these days one must be weary
of all suppliers as I am sure
your son, Marino, must have eyes
on his trading partners as well.
Venice is collapsing. After the fall
of Constantinople—doom, doom,
I tell you …” And the negative stream
of words about my beloved Murano
and her mother, Venice, never ceases.
I want to scream,
“I will never marry you!”
But I cannot.
I smile politely and say,
“I feel poorly. Please excuse me.”
I curtsy and offer my hand to Signore Borosini.
I look him in the eyes,
not at his head.
“Pleasure to meet you. Buon giorno, signore.”
Mother could melt glass,
she is so fire-mad at me.
I have never before
left ahead of the suitor.
Mother’s eyes flare
their deepest green,
but I surmise
that her anger fuels partially
because she does not want to be
alone with Borosini,
and I have abandoned her.
FOUND GLASS
Giovanna kneels beside my bed,
her head curled over in prayer.
Faceup on my pillow
nestles the hand mirror
Father gave to her
with the larks engraved
on the handle.
“Maria.” She startles like doves
being roused. “I did not hear you come in.”
Still kneeling, she grasps my hand.
“I have been ugly as an asp.
Please forgive me.
I want to make it up to you.”
She offers me her mirror.
“But Father gave this to you,” I say.
“Indeed.” Vanna nods.
“And I thought it was because
he thought my gifts were limited.
And that is why I have been
so selfish and mean, because
I felt like the only thing I could offer
this family was to marry a nobleman,
whereas you …”
“But that is foolish, Vanna,” I say.
“Is it? I am not an artist.
But today, I found this mirror,
and instead of it reflecting an image
of myself, it showed our room,
the beauty of our room.
I held the mirror outside,
and how the fornica glimmered.
I want to make things and people
feel beautiful, that is my gift.
I want to help you, Maria.
If you will let me help you,
I know that I can. With your talent
and my assistance, no nobleman
will be able to resist Maria Barovier.”
I have never seen my sister’s eyes
flutter so rapidly.
It is as though
her lashes are wings.
Her tongue flies from word
to idea like when she sings.
I nod.
“If this will make you happy.”
She claps her hands.
“Together we can do this!
I will take great delight in helping
you make a good match.
Mother will be so happy.”
Vanna bounds from the room to tell her.
LADY LESSONS
“Hold your shoulders more erect,
chin up, eyes not on the floor
like you are surveying everyone’s boots.
It demands then that people
look up to you.”
Giovanna’s voice is pitched sweeter,
but her words sound
just like Mother’s.
Vanna glides across the room,
dancing in her walk.
I try to mimic her steps.
But as if I wear
shoes too large,
I stumble and nearly trip
upon my skirts.
“You looked down, Maria.
That is why you nearly fell.”
“But if I don’t watch
where I step,
I will certainly break my leg.”
“Use your hips and arms
to balance, and hold
your center tight.”
“Oh, I give up.
Please, Vanna, I need a rest.
Let me take off this dress and shoes.
Could I not sneak
down to the furnace
and see if I might discover
something of Luca?”
Vanna aids me out of my finery.
“Why would you care to do that?”
I should tell her, but instead I say,
“I don’t know. Just …”
My voice breaks.
“I must go.”
And I whip down the stairs
faster than any noblewoman
should dare to go.
I AM HERE
I don’t even want to speak
to him today.
All he needs to do
is turn back
from the radiance
of the furnace
all silhouetted bronze
and ember glow
and acknowledge
that I am here.
Luca notes my presence
and tosses me an apron.
“What, have you come
to just look and stare, princess?
Or might you not lend a hand?”
FAILING
Mother wraps prayer beads
round her wrists.
She has just come from cathedral
and calls me into her chambers.
I kneel before her.
She finally speaks to me.
“I have been praying
over what to do with you, Maria.
You left a meeting with a suitor
without my consent.”
“I am sorry. I don’t know what—”
She raises her hand
like a shield and silences my words.
Tears trickle down her cheeks.
“You take none of this seriously.
I am failing you as a mother,
but worse I am failing your father.”
She dries her eyes.
“If you cannot make a match
with Signore Bembo,
I may have to send you to the convent.”
MY SISTER, MY CAPTAIN
that sounds smooth and pleasant
as golden brocade.
I wish for it never to end.
“I know a little of Signore Bembo;
he is related to the Doge.
An older man who should have
married long ago and is a bit
of an embarrassment to his family,
and that is why we have a chance
to make this alliance,”
she says after morning meal.
“I have met his sister.
She is odd, wears her hair
plaited three ways and very tightly.
And she speaks
out of the side of her mouth,
but her brother adores her.”
Vanna cannot even drink her coffee
she is so eager to prepare
for our suitor.
She says nothing about
my running off
to see Luca.
She flings open my bureau
with such force I fear
the door will unhinge.
Vanna paces before
the open closet, contemplating
what I should wear as though
this were of vital import.
It is as though she prepares
me for battle. Finally selecting
the green silken frock, she says,
“This is the gown that will snare
Signore Bembo.” Her eyes ignite.
“Vanna, you take this so seriously,”
I say.
“Maria, this man will acquire
great wealth from our family.
You do not realize your worth,” she says.
“Of course, the Bembos
are a very political family
in Venice and well aligned for us.
That is why it is a good match.”
“I had no idea you knew
so much of this,” I say.
“When you spent time learning recipes
with Father, what do you suppose
Mother and I did, solely pull
thread through tapestry?
No, I learned the history
of certain families of which
I might become a part.”
“Why did Mother not tell me
these things to help me understand?”
I ask her.
Vanna shrugs. “Per
haps
there wasn’t time
or she assumed that I would help you.
I have failed you to this point,
but no more.”
My sister stands up taller
than I have ever seen her.
“Andrea Bembo,
if I recall correctly, likes figs.
His sister, Leona, likes gardens.
You should draw a picture
of a garden for her.”
Vanna lists items like a captain.
I rush about the room,
a mad puppy trailing
her skirt tails,
trying to take notes
and complete tasks.
But I fear we have not
enough time
and that my heart—
I certainly haven’t time
to consider that.
DOWRY
I hold the will
but must misread what it says.
Vanna’s words were truth.
My dowry alone
could restore both fornicas.
“What are you doing rifling
through your father’s papers?”
Mother grabs the will
from my hands.
“I don’t need all of these ducats
for my dowry.
Why don’t you use them
for the business?”
“Maria, I cannot just reallocate
funds from a will as I see fit.
Only you can give money back
to this family from your dowry,
and only upon your death.
And I wish that to happen no time soon.”
Mother shakes her head.
“This was never to be your concern.”
“But why not?
Perhaps if you had told me
all that was at stake,
I might have been more helpful.”
Mother puts her arms around me.
“Oh, my dear, a mother knows
her children, and I am not sure
that you can be any more