Dark Shimmer Read online

  People have been nicer to me since I began working for Venerio. The mothers, I mean. Some of them even smile when our eyes meet. None of the kids are nicer to me, though. So I have no choice but to glare at them; otherwise they’d steal my food and taunt me even more.

  I place my hand on the sun-warmed glass. I know how they make these larger pieces. Venerio told me. He likes to boast that when he was young, before he got the tremors, he used to blow glass. To make the glass, they burn sea plants and then pour water over the ashes and mix in sand and cook it till it melts into a clear liquid. Then they dip one end of a long metal pipe in the liquid and hold the pipe high and blow into the other end. The molten glass grows into a huge bubble. Then the blowers swing the pipe so that the bubble hangs heavy and low and stretches into a long, hollow pod. They cut the ends off while the pod is still bubbling hot and then cut along one side and flatten it out. And there you have it—a long, flat sheet like this.

  Our men pick up the glass sheets from the glassblowers’ island and bring them here for Venerio and me to turn into mirrors. As pay we get whatever we need—sometimes money, sometimes food, household furnishings, different fabrics, tools.

  They make mirrors on that other island, too. But our job is special. We experiment with the mirrors we make, trying different methods to get the backing to stay on. Few others experiment like we do, because of the cost of the materials. But we don’t care about costs. That’s because no one gets the metals as cheap as we do. Venerio has friends far away, on the mainland. They mine tin from Monte Valerio and quicksilver from Monte Amiata, and send the metals across mountains and meadows and across the wide lagoon, to us.

  The tin arrives in small sheets as thick as the top half of a thumb. Our boys pound it with a roller for days until it’s only a tenth that thick. There is a short stack of sheets waiting for me.

  I place a thin sheet of tin on the glass. It’s smaller than the glass, so I pick up flakes of tin from the pile of pieces that have broken off in the rolling and add them carefully at the edges until every speck of glass is covered.

  Now I carry the glass over to the slab of limestone that Venerio has scrubbed clean. I blow on the top of the stone, just to make sure. Then I remove the tin from the glass piece by piece, arranging them on the limestone exactly as they were on the glass. I’m good at this. I have sharp eyes and a steady hand, not like Venerio.

  No one’s allowed to be around for what comes next except me and Venerio. This is the part that turns his toes and fingers pink, I’m sure, because the boys who roll the tin have ordinary-colored toes and fingers. Someday my toes and fingers will turn pink, too, I bet. That’s all right with me, though. It’s the mark of my profession. I grin. I have a profession, and I’m good at it.

  I open the iron flask and pour the shimmering quicksilver onto a soft goatskin cloth. I quick plug the flask so the remaining quicksilver won’t disappear into the air. It can do that. I left the plug off my first day on the job and Venerio beat me with a stick so I wouldn’t forget again. And I won’t, though it would be easy to, because quicksilver gives off no smell to remind me to plug the flask.

  I rub the soaking-wet cloth over the tin until the quicksilver covers it evenly, dabbing at the loose flakes ever so lightly so nothing moves. A little quicksilver runs off the edges of the tin, but it’s supposed to. It’s important that every bit of tin gets covered, and that’s the only way to make sure. This coat of quicksilver is a little thicker than the coat I tried last time. Venerio and I vary each part of the process, one at a time, so we can find the most efficient formula for making these mirrors. I’m determined to be the one to find that formula.

  The tin and quicksilver merge into one as I watch. I hold the glass over it and look through, lining it up perfectly. I set the glass on top of the tin, edges matching. The fingers of my right hand are dirty with quicksilver; I’ve left prints on the glass, but that’s no problem. The only quicksilver that will stick is the part that touches the tin, because the quicksilver eats through the tin and together they form something new and hard that sticks to the glass. I wipe off the prints with my clean left palm. I spread a strip of wool over the top of the glass, to protect it from scratching, and I layer it with bricks. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the bricks. It’s not that hot today; it’s the concentration…that’s hard work.

  I rub my hands clean with another piece of wool. Then I sit down and look at my work. Venerio will be the one to uncover it in three days. He’ll lift one end of the mirror just a little, and then the next day raise that end a little higher, each day higher and higher, till the mirror is vertical. That way, whatever excess quicksilver didn’t disappear in the air will run off into the box waiting just for that purpose. Then Venerio will cut away any tin that sticks out—but there won’t be any, I’m so careful—run a chisel around the edges, wipe it all down, and paint the back to keep my work from flaking away.

  The result will be good. But probably not perfect. Not yet. Next time maybe Venerio will leave it for four days. Or maybe he’ll use more bricks, make it all heavier. We’ll keep trying until Venerio declares it can get no better.

  I worked hard and finished sooner than I expected. But I mustn’t be seen walking home too early; people should think it took me hours and hours to set a mirror by myself. Let them be in awe of how hard I work. I sit on a low pile of rubble, and the sun feels good. I keep thinking about the idea of Mamma and me living on our own island. You can see tiny bubbles rising from the water below our bridge now and then, so people say a devil lives there. But it’s not a devil, it’s a guard. Royalty have guards. Mamma always calls our home a castle, after all. It doesn’t matter that it’s rotting and crumbling. I’m still a princess.

  That makes me better than the other kids. It’s crazy, but who cares? Being better than them in a crazy way is better than being worse than them in every way.

  But, oh, I have a trade. That makes me better, too. And being a monster made it happen. Ha!

  A breeze comes off the water. It ruffles the edges of the wool that stick out from under the bricks. My mirror cooks under there, like rolls in an oven. I won’t own that mirror, I won’t even ever look in it—after all, mirrors just show how ugly I am—but it’s mine all the same.

  I stand and stretch to get the kink out of my neck from working bent over for so long. Then I slowly head into the center of town.

  Voices come from the other side of the wall beside the path, from Bartolomeo’s garden. I stand on tiptoe and peek over the wall. The pink oleanders are odorless, unlike the heady red roses. You’d never know from their mild aspect that chewing any part of them can kill you. Bartolomeo is a physician, and he uses the oleanders to fix women’s problems and calm the heart. Poking up through the bottom branches are purple flowers on long stalks. That’s monkshood. A mountain plant, it can grow in shade. Bartolomeo brought it here from Austria. The leaves are hairy and poisonous to the touch. But monkshood lowers fever and stops the horrible coughing that torments old people in winter. This is Bartolomeo’s medicine garden. I call it his horror garden, and I love it. No one’s allowed in without him. Bartolomeo doesn’t like me any more than anyone else does, but he takes me into his garden often because he’s flattered by how closely I listen to him.

  The voices hush for a moment, but here they come again. I peer beyond the bushes and see Mella. Druda, Bartolomeo’s wife, huddles beside her. Bartolomeo is nowhere to be seen. So they’re here secretly. Mella’s shoulders shake with sobs. Druda puts a hand in the center of Mella’s back and waits. They talk, but I can’t make out their words.

  The visible sadness brings tears to my eyes. If Mella were alone, I’d go to her. She needs a kind word.

  Mella steps away and I can see…a baby. Druda takes the baby from her arms. Mella lets out a cry of despair. She grabs for the child.

  For an instant I see naked flailing. What? I bite my tongue to keep from calling out.

  Druda quickly wraps the baby up and walks off.r />
  Mella drops to her knees and holds her face in both hands. She rocks forward and backward, moaning.

  She’s alone now. But I don’t go to her. My insides have turned rock hard. Finally, she stands and smooths her dress and leaves.

  I lean back against the wall and my eyes burn. It occurs to me that this wall is absurdly high. If someone wanted privacy, they could have made a wall that came up to my chest. That height would have served perfectly. It’s as though this wall is trying to keep out taller beings—monsters like me.

  I walk on. When I reach the church of Santa Maria Assunta, I go inside, straight to the casket of Sant’Eliodoro, and look down through the glass top. He’s wrapped like a dried-out caterpillar in his cocoon of clothes, nothing of him visible but his old brown skull, turned the wrong way, as though he’s trying to suffocate himself. His clothes…they’re squashed into a heap, so who knows, really, but they seem…long enough for someone tall…maybe taller than me. I always figured they dragged on the ground behind him. I leave, shaking inside.

  Soon I’m standing beside Mamma in the kitchen. She drops moscardini whole into wine and water in which potatoes and garlic are already boiling. She stirs, then scoops everything into our bowls. All the while, she talks on and on, but I don’t listen. I can’t.

  Mella’s baby was different.

  That night I lie awake and look up at the stars through the open window. I can see the constellation of the harp. It’s usually dim, but right now it glitters bright. I imagine it playing. I’ve never heard a harp, but Mamma says it sounds like angels singing, and that’s easy to imagine. I sit up and listen hard. Please, angels, sing to me. Loudly. Drown out my thoughts.

  A couple of weeks ago, on the tenth of August, we celebrated the feast of San Lorenzo. The people here love him best of all the saints. Hundreds of years ago, some Roman prefect demanded that San Lorenzo give the church’s riches to him. So San Lorenzo brought the poor, the lame, the blind, and the afflicted before that prefect, declaring these were the true riches. He was killed, of course—all saints die horribly, it seems to me. Everyone here loves to tell his story.

  I would scream right now if Mamma weren’t asleep. They’re all a bunch of liars. They praise San Lorenzo when they don’t agree with him at all. They don’t value the afflicted. They hate the afflicted. They hate me.

  And even though Mella cried so hard, she let Druda take her baby.

  The quiet, familiar sound comes: a boat slides past along the canal. I run out to see who it is. I race beside the canal to the end and stare at the boat till its lamp is out of sight.

  Slow footsteps come up behind me. But I know whose they are. I don’t turn around.

  “Dolce?” says Mamma. She touches my hand. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Watching.”

  “Watching the lagoon? Bad things happen in the lagoon at night. Come back home.”

  “Where are they going, Mamma?”

  “Who?”

  “A boat passed.”

  “Oh. That.” She comes to stand beside me. “The big city.”

  “At night?”

  “Mmm.”

  “How come?”

  “They’re taking Mella’s baby there.”

  My teeth clench so hard my ears hurt. “Why?”

  “For adoption. He’ll be better off there.”

  “Why?” My voice gets loud, but I don’t care. “They’re hateful in the city.”

  “It’s Mella and Lorenzo’s decision. It’s their baby. Dolce, come back inside. Come to sleep.” She takes my hand and pulls me behind her.

  I give up. My arms ache from emptiness. I should be holding something. I can’t think what, though. I stumble through the dark, fall onto the bed, roll so my back is to the open window, plug my ears with my fingers, and shut my eyes firmly. I am cut off from everything.

  Except my thoughts.

  All babies have big heads and short arms. But Mella’s baby wasn’t like other babies. Head smaller. Arms longer. Eyes…I don’t know how to describe them…just different. Even his hands were different, with skinny fingers that scrabbled the air, all equally separated. Oh, Lord. Mella’s baby is like me. He’s a monster.

  A monster wouldn’t be adopted by anyone. And the lagoon is all around us.

  Bad things happen in the lagoon at night.

  I will never let anyone rip my babies from my arms.

  I will never have babies.

  “I know you’re following me.” Giordano looks ahead as he speaks, but for sure he’s talking to me. He carries a bucket in each hand.

  I stay behind him and let him think he’s clever for noticing me. Inside my head I laugh at him for not noticing Gato Zalo, who tracks us both at a distance. Giordano would shout and chase the cat off if he saw him. He’d try to kill him. Everyone says our island is best without predators.

  It’s not fair. I don’t know how Gato Zalo wound up here, but he’s got as much right to be here as anyone else. As soon as I can, I’m going to leave him a treat.

  I dare to look back at my cat friend. He’s gone, as though smeared to nothing in the damp air. I’m bereft.

  This moment feels thin, like being alive but not quite. Most of the island is still asleep; usually the fishermen go to work right about now, but the tide is out, so it’s too shallow for the boats this morning. Giordano is the first soul I’ve spied. Exactly the one I hoped to find.

  “Come on up here and walk with me.”

  I run to his side.

  “If you don’t speak, not a single word, you can help me.”

  Why would I want to help him? My goal is for him to help me.

  We move through the soft gray air as though floating in a memory. We’re heading south. I keep my eyes down so I’m not tempted to look across the water to the next island. We arrive at a fondamenta—a stone wall wide enough to walk on that separates the land from the sea. Giordano sets the buckets on the wall, then jumps down into the water. It comes only to his hips. At high tide, he’d have to swim in this spot. He grabs one of the buckets and holds it above the water as he slogs off. After a few steps, he stops and looks back at me expectantly. I jump in. He keeps looking at me. I grab the other bucket. He nods.

  We wade slowly, with me several steps behind. The bottom grasses are spongy underfoot with a slight film of slime. Silver clouds of tiny fish bloom, and dart away to safety. I’m tempted to dunk my bucket to catch them. They’re delicious raw, soaked in lemon juice with onion and parsley chopped fine. But the bucket is heavy; I’d never be fast enough to catch them. And Giordano might get mad. He has a plan for these buckets.

  All at once the grasses end, and the half-muddy, half-sandy bottom shows starkly through the clear water, even in this weak light. Giordano holds up a hand: halt. I stop and look at the shells scattered here and there on the bottom. The best clams, the tiny ones with the stripes, are just below the surface. I could dig them up easily. They would be scrumptious with oil and pepper over long strands of pasta.

  I can’t seem to think of anything but food. I skipped the evening meal last night. My stomach was all ajitter over seeing Mella’s baby, even before I knew they were taking him away. I clutch the bucket to my chest so I can sort of hug myself.

  And I do the forbidden: I look out at the island directly ahead. A spire rises high. It looks like an ordinary place. Appearances can be so deceptive. Why did marsh fever plague our island but not the others, so that many people live there now, but only a few of us live here? Sometimes I wonder if the Lord is punishing us.

  But that’s wrong-minded. We’re here because it’s safe. That’s what everyone says. We’re here because nearly twenty years ago a group of us was smart enough to take over this island and make it ours.

  Suddenly, Giordano rips the bucket from my arms. Did he guess at my wrong thoughts? Will he tell Mamma where I was looking?

  He holds a bucket high in each hand and leaves me standing there. My arms hang empty, useless. I squat in the water till
I’m chest-deep and let my hands glide through it like when I’m swimming. The air above the water turns rosy with dawn.

  It occurs to me that the grassy areas throughout the lagoon could hide any number of things. I don’t want to step on anything…anything tossed in the lagoon at night…anything dead. I swallow a lump of sadness.

  Giordano is clumping through the muddy sand. He stops, turns around, and points at me, then at the water. I look down. Crabs have emerged in his footprints. Ha! I hurry from footprint to footprint, snatching them and throwing them into his buckets. Foot-fishing!

  We work like that till both buckets teem with crabs. The water is now up to Giordano’s chest; the tide is rising fast. At last he nods and hands me a bucket. The buckets are so full, I have to keep pushing crab legs back inside, and still a few crabs escape, plop, plop. They slide through the water, scuttle under the sand, gone. We slog back to land and set the buckets on the fondamenta and I climb up.

  Giordano goes back out in the water. He fetches a net he must have set there yesterday evening. He slogs over to sit beside me.

  “Can I talk now?” I ask.

  Giordano picks seaweed from his net. He glances up, then goes back to work.

  “Did you live right near the king?” I ask.

  “You did a decent job this morning, Dolce.” He picks the seaweed fast. “Venerio says you’re a good worker at the mirrors, too. You’re strong.”

  “The king…?”

  “I complimented you. You’re supposed to say thank you.”

  “Thank you. I want to know about the king.”

  “What king? This is a republic.” Giordano gives a little laugh. “Are you talking about my homeland?”

  “Yes. Did you ever see him? Did you see the queen? The princesses?”

  “I did.”

  “Really?”

  He tosses me one end of the fishing net. “Pick. The ones like this”—he holds up some leafy seaweed nearly like lettuce—“they go in the pile here. The rest are junk.” He throws a lacy seaweed back in the water.