The Colour of Heaven

by Runcie, James

  ‘But can’t you see?’

  ‘Please …’ Marco reasoned.

  ‘No. I ask you. I beg you,’ his wife replied. ‘I will do everything. You don’t have to talk to him. You don’t even have to look at him if you don’t want to. Just let me be with him.’

  ‘Rather than with me.’

  ‘It is not a choice between you and the child.’

  ‘It seems that it is.’

  ‘No,’ said Teresa once more. She realised, for the first time, that she liked the sound of the word: its percussive defiance. ‘He can work for you. We will need an apprentice.’

  ‘Don’t think of such things.’

  The child began to wake and cry.

  ‘You see?’ said Marco.

  ‘I will care for him. You need do nothing. I will keep him away from you. Nothing about him need concern you.’

  Teresa took the boy to the back of the house and fed him the bread softened in milk that she had prepared. She would hide him in the house for the night, stay with him, and protect him against her husband.

  She laid the baby on a small upturned wooden bench that she had lined and covered in blankets. He would be safe with her. She would remain with him all night. Perhaps she would never sleep soundly again. Her life was guarding this child: against her husband and against the world.

  ‘Paolo,’ she said quietly. ‘I will call you Paolo.’

  When Teresa woke she knew that something was wrong.

  Her son had disappeared.

  This was the punishment for all the elation he had given her. She could hear the men downstairs, laughing as they began their day’s work. She must ask them, force them even, to tell her what had happened.

  ‘Where’s Marco?’ she asked the stizzador, as he stoked the furnace.

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Have you seen the child?’ she asked the apprentice.

  ‘The bastard?’

  ‘Not the bastard. The child.’

  She felt the fury rise inside her. This was how they spoke. Already the apprentice had learned.

  ‘The foundling.’ It was as if he was correcting her.

  ‘My child,’ she shouted.

  For a moment there was silence. The two men turned away.

  Teresa walked outside and looked down the street. It started to rain, sudden and hard, momentarily confusing her. She tried to think how far Marco’s anger could stretch and the panic made her wild. She ran through the streets, asking all who would listen. She asked the boat builders, vintners, bakers, and butchers; the masons, shoemakers, coopers, and carpenters; the smiths, the fishermen, the barber, and the surgeon if they had seen either her husband or her child. She asked children and grandmothers, the lame and the sick, but it was as if the whole island was locked in a conspiracy to prevent her discovering the truth. Eliana the soothsayer who had never found a husband, Felicia the lace-maker from Burano who had married badly, Franco the blacksmith, Sandro the cooper, Domenico the farrier, Francesco the merchant, Gianni the vintner, Filippo the usurer, even Simona, whom half the island pitied and the other half envied because she too was barren, could not help Teresa in her search.

  The rain caught in her hair and splashed up her bare legs. There was nowhere else to go, no one she could ask. Then she thought to check their boat. How could she have been so slow? Was this not the first thing she should have done?

  Her sandals were waterlogged and she stopped to take them off, running barefoot through the slippery streets. Perhaps Paolo would be resting in the boat, waiting for her as he had when she had first found him.

  She was struck by the shock of memory.

  Her pace began to slow, as if she dared not face the inevitability of absence. How could Marco have done this?

  She stopped, breathed in, and let the rain fall.

  She closed her eyes, praying the boat would be there, and that her husband would be with the child.

  But the sandolo was gone.

  Perhaps she had not prayed hard enough.

  Teresa knew that she should go to the church of San Donato and pray without ceasing. She would let God know how much she loved her son.

  It was raining so hard that she could hardly see. Her body twitched as she ran, as if shaking off the rain and ridding herself of anxiety were one and the same.

  She entered the church, took from the stoop of holy water, genuflected, and ran to the front of the nave.

  She slid down onto her knees, and lay prostrate before the altar.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God, Mother of all Mothers, aid me in my distress.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God, Mother of all Mothers, who knows what it is to love a son, aid me in my distress.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God, Mother of all Mothers, who knows what it is to lose a son, aid me in my distress.’

  She stretched out her arms in submission.

  Teresa would not move until Paolo was returned to her. She would lie through every service, each day and every night until Marco, God, and the island had mercy upon her.

  For the first hour, no one took any notice. Acts of devotion were common, and the priest almost applauded her piety. But as the day wore on, and services continued, people began to whisper that it was strange she had not moved. One woman noticed that a glass bead from Teresa’s rosary had shattered on the floor. Another wondered if she might be dead.

  By the afternoon, an elderly lady remarked that she had never seen such piety; another observed that the prostrate woman must have many sins to forgive. At last someone suggested that they should go and tell her husband.

  The priest was summoned, and he agreed to fetch Marco himself. It was a husband’s job to look after a lunatic wife, not a priest’s.

  By the time he returned, a crowd of people had congregated under the mosaic of San Donato.

  Teresa’s head rested in a circle of porphyry that made it look, to the disapproving, as if it had already spilled its blood. To the faithful it could have been a halo.

  Then Marco arrived, pushing through the crowd.

  He stopped, halfway up the nave.

  ‘Rise, woman.’

  Teresa did not move.

  ‘I said, rise.’

  Marco looked to the priest, who gestured that he move forward, encouraging him to join her on the floor. Marco was suspicious.

  The priest gestured again.

  Reluctantly Marco walked forward, stopped, and then crouched down beside his wife, his knees cracking in the echoing church.

  Teresa shut her eyes more tightly.

  Marco lay down beside her. The cool of the floor began to chill his bones.

  ‘The child is safe,’ he said at last.

  Still Teresa said nothing.

  ‘Safe,’ Marco repeated.

  What was he supposed to do?

  ‘He is with the friars, on the Island of the Two Vines. They will look after him.’

  Teresa sensed the people were there, watching, but she knew that she had to stay here, completely prostrate, until her husband consented to her every demand. If she capitulated now she would never see Paolo again.

  ‘Only I can look after him …’

  Marco lay on the floor without knowing what he should do. He listened to his wife breathing as he did when he could not sleep; and, in the cold drama of that moment, he realised that perhaps he had never loved Teresa so much as he did now. She was prepared to humiliate herself or even die to fight for that child. He started to sit up and tried to take her hand, but it lay outstretched, palm down against the marble. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Give me my son.’

  Marco tried to pull Teresa up from the floor, but still she would not move. About to let go, convinced that his wife would do nothing until he brought the child into the church and placed him back in her arms, he replied with two words: ‘Our son.’

  Teresa’s grip tightened. Her left arm bent at the elbow, as if she was beginning to raise her body. She moved slowly, testing her ability to do so, checking that this was no dream. She
rose from the ground and put her arms around her husband.

  ‘Let me go there. Let me bring Paolo home.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ cried Marco.

  Teresa held him to her. ‘I will never ask anything of you again.’

  The people under the mosaic began to move away. Marco and Teresa were embracing, clothing each other against all the doubts and fears of their future.

  The next day Teresa rowed across the lagoon to collect her son. She could see the Island of the Two Vines from Murano, the bell tower jutting out amidst the cypress trees, and kept it in her sights throughout the journey, fearing it might disappear if ever she looked away.

  She tied up the boat and walked across the marshes. Gradually the ground became firmer. A group of finches started up from the grass as she walked, and the air was loud with the sound of swifts, swallows, and cicadas. Ahead lay a grove of olives.

  Teresa stopped.

  Underneath the trees lay six open coffins, each one containing a friar.

  Perhaps the island was diseased, and the midges and flies of the wasteland had carried an infection in the air. Had Marco lied and sent her here to die? Was the island deserted? And where was Paolo?

  Suddenly, one of the dead friars sat up in his coffin and sang.

  ‘Praised be my Lord for our sister the moon, and for the stars, the which he has set clear and lovely in heaven.’

  Teresa screamed.

  A second dead monk sat up.

  ‘Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and clouds, calms and all weather by which thou upholdest life in all creatures.’

  Teresa found herself in the middle of a mighty Resurrection, as if Judgment Day had arrived without warning. Each of the monks sat up in turn, arms outstretched, gazing high into the heavens.

  ‘Praised be my Lord for our sister water, who is very serviceable unto us and humble, and precious, and clean.’

  ‘Praised be my Lord for our brother fire, through whom thou givest us light in the darkness; and he is bright and pleasant and strong.’

  ‘Praised be my Lord for our mother the earth, the which doth sustain us and keep us, and bringeth forth divers fruits and flowers of many colours, and grass.’

  ‘Praise ye and bless the Lord, and give thanks unto him, and serve him with great humility.’

  The first monk stepped out of his tomb and walked towards her, looking down at the ground as he did so.

  ‘Pax et bonum, peace and all good things, sister …’

  ‘My child …’ Teresa stuttered.

  ‘Our daily orisons …’ the nearest monk explained, also abandoning his tomb.

  ‘I am Brother Matteo and that is Brother Filippo.’ He gestured to the first monk.

  The remainder now rose from their coffins but none would look her in the eye. Teresa thought they might be blind.

  ‘Also Brother Giuseppe, Brother Giovanni, Brother Jacopo, and Brother Gentile.’

  ‘I am Teresa, wife of Marco Fiolaro.’

  ‘Then you are blessed,’ said Matteo, looking at a patch of ground beneath her feet.

  Further silence followed, and the monks stood smiling at the ground as if nothing else need happen.

  At last Brother Matteo offered an explanation. ‘We rest to prepare ourselves for the eternal slumber, as our brother Francis did before us.’

  ‘My child – my husband brought the child …’ Teresa stammered.

  ‘He is yours?’

  ‘I know that he came yesterday and that he needs me. He needs me to feed him.’

  ‘We have provided for him. The milk from Sister Goat, the honey from Brother Bee.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Teresa asked, desperately trying to encourage them to move, but the monks stood smiling and waiting. Perhaps this was their attempt at eternal life, Teresa reflected. There was no hurry to do anything.

  ‘I think the child is in the library,’ Matteo affirmed, and the monks all began to speak at once, as if performing a distracted commentary.

  ‘With Brother Cristoforo.’

  ‘He is old.’

  ‘He has rested much in the afternoon.’

  ‘Time enough in the next world,’ added Giovanni.

  ‘And yet he is prepared for greater glory.’

  ‘Sister Death, the Gate of Life.’

  Teresa wondered if they were all about to lie down again, as if this encounter had been enough for one day. Perhaps they were waiting for her to do something, or there was some rite of which she was unaware.

  ‘Would you like to see Brother Cristoforo?’ Matteo asked.

  ‘He has my son?’

  ‘We have entrusted him to Cristoforo.’

  ‘Can I see him? Can I take my baby home?’

  ‘Rest here a while. Stay with us and pray.’

  Teresa’s determination gave her strength to resist. ‘I must see Paolo.’

  ‘Then follow me.’

  They walked up through the olive grove and into the cloisters. Brother Matteo pointed to a step ahead as if warning Teresa not to trip.

  ‘Be mindful …’

  Teresa looked down.

  ‘Brother Ant.’ A small colony was making its way across the step and the monks waited to let it pass.

  At last they reached the door of the library. Matteo pushed it open, and Teresa could see an elderly monk reading, holding a piece of quartz shaped like the lesser segment of a sphere midway between his eyes and a manuscript. At his feet sat a small wooden makeshift cradle. The monk looked up.

  ‘My child …?’ she asked.

  ‘You are the mother,’ the monk asserted. There was no sense of a question; it was a matter of fact.

  ‘I am, Father.’

  ‘Brother,’ the monk corrected her.

  He knelt down and picked up the baby. ‘So short a stay, so happy a child.’

  He handed Paolo to Teresa. ‘God grant that you take care, sister.’

  Teresa held him, and the surge of love returned. ‘Paolo,’ she said quietly.

  Teresa looked up to see all the fellow monks standing in the doorway, their eyes averted. She turned back to Brother Cristoforo.

  ‘Are they blind?’ she asked.

  The old monk laughed. ‘No, not blind. They see very well. But their eyes are fixed on the earth and on the heavens.’

  ‘Why won’t they look at me?’

  ‘Our brother Francis scarce knew the features of any woman. He was fearful of his body, Brother Ass. I am too old for temptation, but my brothers’ – he smiled – ‘do not want to rekindle the spark of vanquished flesh.’

  ‘They are afraid of me …’

  ‘Not of you, but of temptation.’

  ‘I am just a mother.’ Teresa almost laughed. ‘I am too old for that. I am nearly thirty.’

  ‘We have learned to be careful,’ said the monk severely. ‘A man never knows when the lure of flesh might prove unconquerable.’

  ‘I do not think I pose such a danger.’

  The monk waved her away. ‘Lady, do not test us. Let us serve the Lord and save our souls.’

  ‘I can go?’

  ‘Take your child, and give thanks.’ Then he made the sign of peace and gave her the blessing of St Francis. ‘Let him walk in the way of the Lord.’

  MURANO

  It was a childhood of swamp and fire.

  Almost as soon as he could walk, Paolo was apprenticed to the family glassworks, gathering seaweed and samphire on the shores of the island. He collected pebbles for silica in the marshes as his mother cut branches of elm, alder, and willow for fuel.

  The furnace burned night and day from November to July. Marco worked bare-chested, blowing and twisting the glass from his bench. Paolo marvelled at the way in which the thick vitreous paste could purify in the flames to become lucid and brilliant. He let his fingers run through the infinitely varied sharpness of the sand, testing its coarseness and consistency. He examined each constituent part, amazed by the softness of the soda, the alchemical quality of red lead, the
threat of arsenic. He loved the way in which the glass mixture, the frit, melted and cracked in the heat, becoming as glutinous and foaming as the waters of the lagoon, surging towards him in the furnace, the hottest sea he had ever seen.

  As he grew older Paolo would arrange glass by colour, and visit the mosaicists at work in the churches on the island. He helped them break down stone into tesserae, white from Istria, red from Verona, and watched as they laid the pieces as closely together as possible, pushing them into the wet mortar, brushing off the excess, cleaning the colours with the white of an egg. He took orders to his father as the men asked for a pound of deep red, a bag of emerald, a box of purple. He knew the names by heart: dark blues and deep blacks, purples and violets; the greens of olive, emerald, and oglino; yellow, amber, and his favourite orange vermilion, becco di merlo, as bright as the beak of a blackbird. He learned to distinguish between tones, laying out different varieties of colour, assessing the difference between those which complement and those which contrast. He put disparate shapes and tones together, seeing how close blue was to black, or how yellow and blue could not only combine to make green but also intensify into red. He placed sections on top of each other, and watched the mosaic makers lay thin strips of colour over glass to create the brilliance of enamel. One day his mother gave him a small blue crystal and he carried it everywhere, holding it up to the light, watching the way in which different angles of view created different streaks of colour. He closed his eyes and tried to remember each hue and tone.

  In the foundry by the fondamenta, Marco provided tesserae in every colour: azzurro, beretino, lactesino, rosso and turchese, so that there were blue days and green days, white days and black days. He would experiment with imitation jewellery, vases, bottles, and even beads. He took long tubes of glass and ran a fine wire through their centre, working them over the fire, before cutting them into tiny sections so that they emerged as rounded as pearls. When they had cooled he gave them to his wife and son to thread, and together the family created rosaries, bracelets, and necklaces in imitation quartz and pearl.

  Paolo would play with Teresa’s ring, a sapphire, placing it on each finger, or rolling it along the ground before holding it up against the light. It was the most precious object she owned, given by her mother just before her death, and she watched Paolo as he played. Perhaps, one day, his wife would wear it.