The Glassblower of Murano by Marina Fiorato Page B

some papers from his pocket; `more efficiency.' He spread the papers on the table for her. She
could see they had photocopied pictures of houses and
details below, much like the information from an estate
agent. `My cousin, Marta, has given me the keys to these
four. We'll go and see, and if you like any, you can move
in tonight!
    'Tonight?'

    `You are surprised?'
    Leonora shook her head, bemused.
    `It's just that I've been trying to see apartments for a
month and there have always been delays, or problems, or
paperwork ...' This extraordinary man seemed to cut
through all of Venice's sedentary rhythms.
    `Ah, that's what comes of knowing a local.' Alessandro
smiled. `Here's the one I think you should see first. It's
quite close to here.' He pointed to one of the four, two
rooms in a beautiful three storey house. She followed
Alessandro's finger.The address was printed clearly - Campo
Manin.
    It was a top floor flat in a large, shabby, once-grand house.
Though modern in all other respects, she was intrigued
on entry by the original staircase that formed the axis for
all the apartments, now with ugly modern fire doors. It
was grand and beautifully worked. Leonora put out a hand
and touched the flaking, turquoise paint. When it and the
gilt was new, did family portraits stare down from these
walls, to watch the servants and masters mount and descend?
As if catching an echo she said, `Corradino?'
    Alessandro was struggling with the latch of apartment
3C. `What?'
    `Nothing.' It was too early to confess that her best friend
in all of Venice was a ghost. `I just wondered if any other
Manins had lived here.'
    Alessandro shrugged, his mind on the door. `It's possible.

    Very possible. Ah . . .'This as the door gave way and Leonora
followed him into the flat. It was plain, sparsely furnished,
but with two enormous windows which looked out onto
the campo, and best of all, a rickety spiral stair of wrought
iron which led onto a flat terrace, and the crazy rooftops
ofVenice all around. Leonora leant on the crumbling balustrade and gazed at the Campanile in the distance. She
could hear bells.
    I want to live here. I knew as soon as I walked in the door.
    Alessandro's no-nonsense approach to practicalities continued to astonish Leonora for the rest of the day. She
presumed her choice would result in a further couple of
weeks of negotiations, followed by a protracted moving-in
period. But Alessandro was on his mobile phone to his
cousin at once, speaking in rapid tones. They had barely
completed the tour of the rudimentary bathroom ('don't
expect hot water all the time; not in Venice,') when the
cousin - Marta - appeared. She was a businesslike, friendly
woman with glasses, short hair and none of the physical
beauties of her cousin. She sat with Leonora at the well
scrubbed table, on one of the odd chairs. By the time
Leonora had signed the twelvemonth lease, Alessandro had
contacted the storage company on Mestre and arranged
for an unheard-of Sunday delivery of Leonora's belongings
for the next day. Both cousins offered to be present to
help with the furniture, Leonora was given the key, and she and Alessandro went to her hotel to pack and check
out.

    He seemed in no hurry to be elsewhere, nor did he
seem overly friendly in the odious way she had detected
in her colleagues - the friendship of men who want more.
They talked constantly as they walked and worked, mostly
of that holy Italian trinity - art, food and football. Once
her luggage was installed in her new flat, together with
some essential supplies for morning, she began to feel,
incredibly, that he was enjoying her company. Her pleasure
and confusion grew, as with the arrival of dusk he said,
with the brusque, no-nonsense manner she now recognized
as characteristic: `Shall we get a drink? We should celebrate.
I know a good place:
    Leonora raised a brow. `As good as the Do Mori?'
    He laughed. `You can't get better than this