The Colour of Heaven. James Runcie

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      Teresa knew that this was not the time to argue. ‘Let him do what he is good at. There are things he can do.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘He loves colour. He concentrates on it. He understands it. Let him prepare and sort the glass. I will help him.’

      ‘You work hard enough for him as it is. How can you do more?’

      ‘Don’t be angry with him.’

      ‘We can’t have accidents by the furnace. You know that.’

      Teresa eased the bandage on his arm, and stroked Marco’s hair. ‘You have been brave.’ She smiled.

      ‘The wound will heal, won’t it?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It will. Let me bring you some wine.’

      Work ceased for the day, and they sat together outside the foundry in the evening light. Teresa never understood how Marco’s temper could rise and fall so quickly. ‘Can we not love Paolo for what he is?’ she asked.

      ‘I try, but I can never forget the boy is not my son. You can love him but I do not know how. He’s quiet. He hardly speaks. He doesn’t even look like me. He’s so hard to love.’

      ‘Then love him for me, for my sake.’

      ‘I do. That is what I do. Can you not see that this is what I am doing? This is how I live. Only for you. The boy is …’

      Then Marco stopped. Teresa turned round.

      Paolo had returned and was listening.

      ‘How long have you been there?’ Marco asked.

      Paolo looked at his mother. ‘What did he mean – “I can never forget the boy is not my son”?’

      Teresa remembered the first word Paolo had 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 СКАЧАТЬ