“What is it, Aunt Marie?” Wanda said, though she was only partly listening. She had just spotted a glass that was tinted a delicate pink like cotton candy and so lovely that . . .
“Time was when the Heimer workshop was well-known for the quality of their wares and the range they could offer, but they’ve been in a bad way for a few years now. Don’t ask me why!” Marie said, raising her hands in protest. “All I know is that Wilhelm would never hear any talk of getting into Christmas ornaments.”
“But there are so many things they could make other than Christmas ornaments, aren’t there? If . . . if Thomas Heimer is as good a glassblower as you claim, then he must get enough other work,” Wanda replied. She couldn’t bring herself to say “my father.”
Marie laughed. “It’s not that simple. You see, the orders don’t come in these days the way that they used to. You have to go out and look for the work. Nowadays a glassblower has to have a streak of the salesman too, or he’ll go under.”
“Who goes out and gets the orders in your workshop?” Wanda asked, frowning.
“Johanna, of course! She takes care of the whole business side of things—I know nothing about any of that,” Marie said. She waved to Franco, who was headed toward them with two men in tow. “Isn’t he handsome, my proud Italian?”
Wanda rolled her eyes. There was no talking to Marie once she got that dreamy look on her face. She took a couple of steps and stood right in front of her aunt.
“Do you think I might ever become a glassblower?” she asked, feeling stupid as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “I only mean . . . since both of my parents are from famous glassblowing families. Sadly, though, I’ve never been terribly good with my hands. I can’t do embroidery at all, for instance. Whenever I try to do fine needlework my fingers get all sweaty and cramp up—whatever I try ends up looking clumsy and ragged . . . Aunt Marie, you’re not listening to me at all!”
“Could you blow glass? Well, we’d have to try and see . . .” Marie replied, her gaze still fixed on Franco.
Wanda held her breath. Should she go ahead and blurt out the crazy idea that had been buzzing around her head these past few days?
“What would you say to my coming to Lauscha to visit you sometime?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I could try my hand at glassblowing. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? If Mother lets me, I could come with you when you go home.”
Before Marie could answer, Franco gestured to the two Italian glassblowers to come forward.
“May I introduce Flavio Scarpa and Mateo di Pianino? They will be happy to answer any questions you have about their art, but you will have to put up with me doing the translation, since I’m afraid they can’t speak English or German.”
Marie and the two glassblowers launched immediately into a highly technical discussion of cameo technique, powder melts, layering applications, and a thousand other things that Wanda knew nothing about and didn’t care about. Marie was absolutely in her element, though. She seemed to have forgotten not just Wanda but even her own handsome Italian, whose face grew ever darker.
I seem to have chosen the worst possible moment to share my idea, Wanda thought irritably as she wandered off among the showcases on her own.
18
After they had escorted Wanda home, Marie and Franco stopped by a little bar near Ruth’s apartment building. The bar wasn’t chic or especially cozy; it didn’t have a fancy menu—in fact it only served sandwiches, and the regulars there were just ordinary folks. Despite all that—or perhaps precisely because of all that—Franco and Marie liked the place. When they sat at one of the little red oilcloth tables with a glass of beer or a whiskey in front of them, nobody intruded on their private little world. The other customers included neither artists wanting to talk with Marie nor Italian restaurateurs wanting to haggle with Franco for better terms. Marie occasionally spotted a neighbor from Ruth’s building, but even then they exchanged nothing more than a quick nod of greeting. Marie loved the hubbub of Greenwich Village, but sometimes she just wanted a little peace and quiet.
“Oh, I’m tired!” she said as soon as she had sat down. “My feet feel about ready to fall off. But it was worth all that walking—it was a magnificent exhibition! Those pieces struck a chord that’s still sounding inside me. And Wanda was so enthusiastic! She’s like a child, don’t you find? She can be a lot of hard work, though, can’t she? Or . . . what is it, why are you looking so grim?” She frowned. She realized now that Franco had been unusually quiet and introverted all day.