The Glassblower of Murano by Marina Fiorato

Even
worse, this form had already been signed by Adelino, so
now she must ask him to do it again, which meant at least
one more trip back here. Nora silently cursed the form,
cursed the city, cursed the officer with the clean fingernails
who was such a jobsworth that he had made her jump
through this hoop. Finally done, she watched him check
it through meticulously, hating him.
    `Gene,' he said finally. He handed the form back. As he did
so he said, with his first hint of friendliness, `You know, Leonora
is a much better name than Nora. And it is the right name
for a Venetian. See,' he pointed to the Lion of Saint Mark,
which adorned the top of Nora's form. `The Lion. II Leone.
Leonora.' He raised his eyes to hers for the first time, and she
placed him at last - he was the man from the Pieta, the one
that had glanced at her in the Vivaldi concert.
    She wondered if he had recognized her too, before she
registered what he had said about her name. It struck her
that it was the exact opposite of what Stephen had said
to her - that Leonora was pretentious and affected. Here
it was not. Here it fitted. Here Nora was the strange name,
an English name, a cause for comment. She was becoming
a Venetian. She looked at the man who had invited this
epiphany, and smiled.

    He returned the smile, then instantly the professionalism
was back. He looked down at the forms again. `You are
still living at the Hotel Santo Stefano?'
    `Yes:
    The officer took a sharp intake of breath, making that
peculiar sound that, in any language, denotes great
expense.
    `I know I'm looking for a flat at the moment' Nora felt
the urgency better than anyone. The money from the sale
of Belmont was fast disappearing, and a month in a hotel
hadn't helped.
    The officer looked thoughtful. `I know someone who
could help you. My cousin is an agent for a number of
apartments in San Marco. If you want, I could show you
some. Maybe at the weekend? I'm off on Saturday?'
    Nora felt doubtful, memories of the evening with
Roberto and Luca fresh in her mind. But this man was a
public official. And she did need a flat. She was determined
however, to plan future meetings in the safety of daytime.
    `What about 3 o'clock?'
    He nodded.
    `Where?' she asked.
    He got up to open the door for her. `How about the
Cantina Do Mori? The Two Moors? In San Polo?'
    Where else. A little known, ancient, steadfastly Venetian
drinking place. To a tourist, he would have suggested
Florian's. She felt flattered. `Perfect!

    He held out his hand as she made to leave, and as she
shook it he said, `I'm Officer Alessandro Bardolino.'
    She smiled again. `At the Do Mori, then, Officer
Bardolino.'
    And Leonora Manin walked out of the Questura, once
again without her permesso di lavoro.

     

CHAPTER 8

La Bocca del Leone
    The first time Corradino fled for his life to Murano went
like this.
    The Manins were a powerful and wealthy family. They
accrued a significant fortune from their mercantile interests
along the Black Sea to the Levant and Constantinople. By
the mid-seventeenth century they had attained considerable
political power to match.
    The head of the family, Corrado Manin, lived with his
twin younger brothers Azolo and Ugolino, in a grand palazzo in the Campo Manin, a square named in the family's
honour. Corrado took a wife, Maria Bovolo, a woman of
good character and even better connections. They had a
son, also called Corrado, but known as Corradino, the
diminutive form which distinguished him from his father.
The family adored each other and the house ran like the
well appointed merchant ships that had made the Manin fortune. There were many servants, a French tutor for little
Corradino, and the Manin men were free to pursue their
interests in the political sphere.

    One summer, when Corradino was ten, and becoming
a well-formed intelligent boy, the Manin fortunes
changed.
    Corrado was elected to the Council of Ten, the closeknit junta that ran