“I bring an order from the merchants of Venice”

Last night, tucked into the soft bed, crisp white sheets gathered around her, Margalit had listened to the gentle whisper of the bougainvillea trees brushing against the window of her room. She had always associated those strange, papery orange, white and fuchsia flowers with home. Now they reminded her of Abuelita’s wrinkled, soft, feather-light hand the last time she’d held it — and the tiny silver key she’d pressed into it.

That night, Margalit dreamed the most vivid dream she’d ever had. When she woke up, she did not remember it precisely, but she felt it hovering backstage in her brain, waiting to make its appearance, like a heavy cloud waiting to overflow with rain.

And, today, for some reason that she can’t explain, she keeps thinking of tigers.

 Here is a man bent over a furnace, twirling something on a rod. The man’s cap slightly obscures his face, but he appears to be concentrating. He is a master craftsman, an artisan. He is a glassmaker busy at work.

Here is another man entering the small shop, pausing a bit to adjust to the heat and sweat of the room. He’s holding the hand of a young boy, perhaps aged seven or eight. Hear the man clear his throat, see him shuffle from foot to foot. The glassmaker does not look up.

“Fratello,” he tries.

The glassmaker does not look up.

“I bring an order from the merchants of Venice.”

At this the glassmaker looks up. Sharply. He eyes the man, still holding the hand of the boy, his blue eyes piercing.

“And what do the merchants of Venice wish to order?” he responds, finally breaking his silence. It is a well-rehearsed pattern, a code.