ever spoken. Gone. Even then she thought that he had been speaking of his natural mother; her absence. He had sensed her fears. And she had vowed then that she would never tell him. Why should he ever know?
‘It does not mean I do not love you,’ she said simply.
‘Teresa …’ said Marco.
She walked over and tried to comfort Paolo. ‘You have been as a son.’
‘But you did not give me life. I have another mother.’
His eyes had become accusatory.
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Lost. Unknown.’
‘How can this be?’
Marco stood up. ‘Teresa rescued you.’
Paolo ignored him, concentrating all his attention on his mother. ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
Teresa looked at him. ‘I was frightened.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of this.’
Paolo didn’t know whether to feel fury, betrayal, loss, or sympathy for Teresa’s fear. He no longer understood who he was, or his place in the world. What was he, if not their son?
At last Marco spoke.
‘No one could love you as your mother has loved you.’
‘She is not my mother.’
‘She has been as a mother. And you have lived because of her.’
‘Perhaps I should have died.’
‘No,’ said Marco fiercely. ‘Don’t speak like that. You should learn from her.’
‘Learn what?’
‘Gratitude.’
‘Don’t argue,’ said Teresa. ‘Please. I have done all that I can. I have not lived for myself, but only through you. I wanted to do this. I wanted to love.’
‘And I will never know my true mother?’
‘No.’
‘Did she die in childbirth?’
‘We do not know.’
Marco took Paulo to look into the heat of the furnace. ‘Teresa has been the truest mother you could ever have wanted. Her love is fierce, as strong as this flame. Do not ever doubt her.’
Paolo tried to think who his real mother might have been, and what he had inherited from her: perhaps the weakness in the eyes, the way he walked, or the manner in which he held his head when he listened.
What must she have been like? Was she ill or poor? Was he conceived out of love or out of desperation, lust, or violence? How was he born? And who was his father?
Why could he never know?
And how could they have carried such a secret for so long?
As their work continued in the foundry Marco tried hard to tolerate Paolo’s mistakes as if he were one of the slower apprentices. He made allowances for his poor sight, letting him work closely with the glass, keeping him clear of the blowpipes and the flames. Paolo mixed vegetable soda ash, silica sand, and ground quartz pebbles; he prepared glass pastes and gold-leaf tesserae; he added colour by stirring up solutions of manganese, iron, and copper filings to produce deep violets, pale yellow, rich green, and dark amber; and he checked the opacity and the lustre of each piece they produced.
He raised the samples close against his eyes, and then held them at varying distances, watching the way in which they changed in the light, surprised by translucence, amazed by clarity. He passed into a reverie of fascination whatever he held, whether it was a piece of glass, a tessera, a goblet, or a bowl. Each object only had meaning for him when it was closely observed.
On the feast of the Assumption, in the year thirteen hundred and eleven, Paolo was asked to show Simone, a painter from Siena, all the glass and tesserae they possessed, for he wanted to use them as imitation jewels, studding the golden haloes of the saints, in his next altarpiece.
Although the painter was only twenty-six years old it was clear that he was already a successful man. He seemed almost careless of life and possessed all the confidence gained by a good apprenticeship, inherited wealth, and appreciated talent. His expensive clothes were worn nonchalantly, as if he was unaware of their worth, and the blue-and-white cap on his head looked like a half-unravelled turban which could fall off at any moment.
Paolo carried the glass outside, bringing blue sapphires, gold-red rubies, green emeralds into the bright daylight.
‘These are good,’ said Simone. He examined each piece carefully but then appeared distracted, as if Paolo was standing too close to him, blocking his light. ‘You look very pale,’ he observed. ‘Do your parents never let you outside?’
‘In the summer the sun is so bright that it hurts my eyes,’ said Paolo, ‘and so I try to find shadow. I have always been fair.’
‘Extraordinary. You are as pale as a town egg. Perhaps I should paint you. I am always using the people I meet in my work. You cannot imagine how many Venetian merchants I’ve expelled from the Temple.’
Paolo was curious and suddenly amused. ‘Who would I be?’
The painter examined him once more, looking at the way the light fell on his face. ‘You are rather beautiful. Such strange blue eyes. You could be an angel. Or the magician Elymas struck blind by Paul. If you grew your hair, you could even be a girl. St Lucy, perhaps, the saint who plucked out her eyes because her lover would not cease from praising her beauty.’ He picked out a yellow stone. ‘Do you know that she was drowned in a vat of boiling urine? Not very pleasant.’
They walked back into the foundry and Paolo took Simone to the storeroom. Here he displayed each piece of glass in different lights, showing the painter how it changed from sunlight to shadow. Then he asked on which wall the painting would be situated: whether north or south, east or west, and if there would be windows close by.
He held glass up against the window and in the doorway, asking Simone at which time of day the light would fall on his painting and for how long? Did it move from right to left or from left to right? Had he seen the mosaics in the church of San Donato?
Paolo was so serious in his questioning that for the first time that afternoon Simone was silenced and thoughtful.
‘I always follow the dominant light,’ he replied at last.
Paolo asked what colours the painter would be using, and how much gold leaf he could extract from a florin. If the Virgin’s cloak was to be blue then which particular blue might it be: cobalt, azurite, or indigo? Perhaps a glass amethyst might work as a clasp, but would he like it to be cut in any special way, faceted or made round?
The painter smiled. ‘How do you know such things?’ he asked.
Marco had entered the storeroom and was listening. ‘His eyes are not as others’.’
Simone turned to Marco. ‘He has extraordinary ability. He speaks of light and colour as if they were his greatest friends.’
‘They are all he knows.’
‘Are you happy here?’ The painter turned to Paolo.
‘Of course he is happy,’ Marco interrupted. ‘Why might he not be?’
‘I was only thinking.’
‘What?’ asked Paolo.
‘If you would like to come and work for me.’
‘Where?’
‘In Siena, of course.’ Simone turned to Marco. ‘Let me take him for a year. I will train him. He can cut and set the glass in my work.’
‘And you