The Girl With the Painted Face (28 page)

‘I’ll get him out of the way. He needn’t know. Not till later, anyway.’

Sebastiano considers this, feeling his cock shift in his breeches. The girl is exquisite – the ripe mouth and the peach-round breasts are crying out to be kissed and, more than this, there is something particularly enticing about the prospect of fucking her while Angelo detains her lover elsewhere in his house. And he’ll make sure Maddalena knows what he is doing, too, and with whom. That will only add to the spice of it. He says, ‘And what about her? The girl? Will she co-operate?’

Angelo raises an eyebrow and his mouth twitches into a mirthless grin. ‘You can be very persuasive when you want to be, Correggio.’

Sebastiano laughs. ‘Very well. You get the boy out of the way, and make sure I have at least an hour with the girl, and then you can have one of the bottles.’

‘How about letting me have a dose from it now?’

‘Before the show? Are you joking? You’ll fall asleep on the bloody stage and spoil the play for my guests. No – you can damn well wait.’

‘But —’

‘Get the boy away after the show, give me an hour with the girl and it’s yours. Not before.’

And, striding away, he heads towards the staircase which leads up to his bedchamber. He wants to make sure it is fit to receive… an unexpected guest a little later on.

Sofia smiles up at Beppe, who is staring appraisingly at her face, the little pot of crushed pearl in one hand and the wide brush in the other. ‘I’m going to put a little more of the pearl on than before – the stage will be lantern-lit and you’ll shimmer beautifully,’ he says.

‘Give me your mask, and I’ll give it a polish while you’re doing my face.’

Putting the brush between his teeth, Beppe reaches behind him, grabs the mask from the hook from which it is dangling, and passes it over. Sofia takes a square of linen from the table, folds it over her fingers and begins to stroke the already gleaming black leather, working the cloth into the folds over the brows, the creases under the eyes, the smooth bulge of the cheeks.

‘Whoa, stop it! Don’t look down – do it by feel,’ Beppe says, putting a finger under her chin and tilting her face upwards again.

Sofia takes hold of his wrist, stroking up onto his palm with her thumb. ‘Can we do some other things… by feel… later on, after the show…?’ she says, biting her lip.

Beppe puffs a breath. ‘Stop it – you’ll make me forget my lines.’

The chalk and pearl creases around Sofia’s eyes as she smiles at him.

‘Has anyone seen my handkerchief?’ From the other side of the room, Giovanni Battista sounds anxious, but Cosima is already holding it up between finger and thumb and flapping it out to him – as she does at least three or four times every performance.

‘Sofia,
cara
,’ she says quietly, ‘next time we have a moment, make Giovanni Battista a dozen or so of these, will you? Gio, Sofia will make you a pile of handkerchiefs, and we’ll keep them for you, safe and sound.’

Sofia glances across at Giovanni Battista. He catches her eye and she blows him a kiss. Pretending to catch it, he tucks it carefully into his breeches pocket with the handkerchief, then turns back to squint into the tiny steel mirror.

The lanterns, candles, torches and rushlights have been lit and the great banqueting hall is buzzing with a dozen conversations. Sebastiano gazes around, delighted with the unfolding evening. The effect of it all is even better than he hoped it would be. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves so far, and the atmosphere in the room is positively glittering. The peacock-bright dresses and doublets echo the colours of the frescos, filling the room with a dancing display of colour and shimmer as some three dozen men and women cluster in groups, conversing. Some are already being shown to their chairs by the castle servants, for, unlike the usual jostling, shoving, fidgeting audiences in piazzas and market squares, here at the Castello della Franceschina Sebastiano has made sure that every one of his invited guests will be comfortably seated. Almost every chair, stool and bench in the building has been drafted into service. The elderly servant with the dirty-thistledown hair is beaming as he extends an arm to shepherd a couple of new arrivals into the room.

‘Ah, da Correggio, so good of you to invite us!’ A reedy voice cuts through the hum of conversation, unpleasantly familiar to Sebastiano.

Breaking from his contemplation of the room, he snaps around. ‘
Buon giorno
, Signor di Maccio – and the lovely signora. It’s a pleasure to see you both here at Franceschina… after far too long.’ Sebastiano pecks a bow towards a gaunt-faced man with sparse, almost colourless hair. Taking the man’s wife’s hand, he lifts it to his mouth; Maddalena says nothing as his lips graze her knuckles – though he feels her arm stiffening, and she snatches her hand back, avoiding his eye. Her other hand, he sees now, is starfish-splayed over her belly – the swelling there is more obvious now, far more obvious even than the other day, and he wonders briefly how even a man as obtuse as Paolo di Maccio can have failed to notice it – and then an idea comes to him. An idea so simple he is astounded he has not thought of it before.

He almost laughs aloud.

He has threatened Maddalena with exposure of her infidelity on so many occasions, never really intending to do so, enjoying the taunting, but
now
is the perfect time to do it. Now, as he contemplates the encounter he is planning with the little actress later on this evening, he realizes that he can enjoy putting a suitably theatrical end to his increasingly troubled liaison with Maddalena. He’ll be rid of her at last. Biting down a grin, he imagines how the conversation might unfold:
I can only think that you must have noticed your wife’s… erm… recently altered physique, signore,
he will say in an intimate whisper, deliberately politely, an arm around di Maccio’s back. As friend to friend. He practises the smile, now, and Signor di Maccio – unwitting – returns it.
I wonder, though, if you have surmised the cause.
He will stand back then. Harden the look. Tighten the smile. No doubt the old man will frown, Sebastiano thinks. He will bluster out his lack of comprehension, and into this confusion Sebastiano will drop the truth. Still smiling.
You won’t know this, but she’s carrying my bastard – that’s the reason she’s the shape she is. I’ve been fucking the little whore for months – seeing as you are entirely incapable of doing so yourself – and what is inside that swollen belly is the result of the… er… entertainment I’ve been offering her. Don’t worry, though, sir: I’m as tired of the games we’ve been playing as I think she is – and you’re welcome to have her back – her and the brat.

He looks over at Maddalena, his gaze on the rounded protrusion of her skirts. Maddalena stares at the floor.

I very much doubt, though,
he will continue,
you will wish society to know either of the ever-flaccid contents of your breeches, or of the whoring promiscuity of your opium-quaffing wife, will you now?
He will pause then, enjoying the effect
. Oh? What’s that? Did you not know about her need for the latest medicaments either? Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought you must have done. But don’t worry –
his smile will broaden here
– nobody need know anything about any of it. I have no intention of disseminating the news. In fact, you can pass off the bastard chit as your own if you should care to – to silence the whisperers. Under… certain conditions, that is.
And then he will drop his smile and in a cold, hard voice he has used to great effect on many similar occasions, he will name his price.

He glances from Maddalena to her husband, delighted with himself. At the sight of his satisfied smirk though, Maddalena’s eyes widen and she looks, Sebastiano sees now, positively terrified.

‘Do take your seats,’ he says, swallowing down smug relief and gesturing towards where a variety of benches and chairs have been placed facing the stage. The latter is now complete and colourful, with its brightly painted street scene stretched taut over the back ropes; a large basket, a couple of chairs, a barrel, a travelling bag, and a stuffed dog have been placed strategically ready for the performance to begin.

The room looks vivid and gaudy in the light from at least two hundred candles, and a dozen pitch-soaked torches are burning in brackets along both side walls. The fifty or so seated guests are murmuring happily amongst themselves – their anticipation shimmers in the air above them like a heat haze – and around the edges of the great banqueting room the servants have gathered in quietly chattering clusters – those of the Franceschina household and those who have travelled here with the various invitees.

Hunching his shoulders and carefully avoiding eye contact with any of the castle underlings, Marco da Correggio walks closely behind a party of half a dozen loudly conversing guests as they make their way in through the great entrance doors of the Castello della Franceschina, and is shown with them through to the Southern Banqueting Chamber. Edging past a pair of elderly women seated on the end of a row of chairs towards the back of the room, he seats himself next to a dapper little man in a brightly embroidered doublet, sliding down low in his seat and folding his arms tightly across his chest.

From here, Marco can see the back of Sebastiano’s head. Up at the front of the room, his cousin is talking to someone – Marco thinks it is the husband of Sebastiano’s latest paramour. Leaning in towards his companion, Sebastiano is gesticulating with animation and seems in surprisingly good spirits. Presumably, though, given everything he was saying the other day, he is acting, Marco thinks.

He swallows uncomfortably. The plan he has been working on since that last encounter with Sebastiano in the tavern seems now, in the face of this glittering collection of his cousin’s friends and acquaintances, pitifully inadequate. Childishly simplistic. It smacks of desperation. His confidence in his idea is rapidly swirling away. If this evening’s event is a façade, constructed by Sebastiano to convince those around him that his finances are in better shape than they really are, then it’s a bloody effective one, Marco thinks now. Looking up at the stage, and seeing the busily painted backcloth depicting an almost-believable receding street scene, it occurs to him that the room is in fact positively buzzing with artifice. Will the invited guests be more convinced by Sebastiano’s false proclamations of affluence, or by the actors’ imminent performance? Or is the one necessary to the other for the credibility of either? He cannot work it out.

Pushing a hand into his breeches pocket, he runs a finger along the creased edge of a folded letter: the letter that he hopes will be enough of a lever to get Sebastiano off his back once and for all. If it works, it will end up as a stand-off between the two of them: each of them will be dangling a rock over the other’s head.

Marco doubts that any serious criminal charges would be brought against Sebastiano should the adultery come to light. Sebastiano is unmarried, so he, Marco, cannot follow Sebastiano’s idea and use the threat of the
strappado
or a gibbet as a deterrent. The sterner punishments would no doubt be meted out to the various women involved, and Marco doubts that that would trouble his cousin excessively. No – Marco’s only hope of release from Sebastiano’s tyranny rests solely on the distinct possibility of his cousin’s social exclusion. If Signor da Budrio were to hear of Sebastiano’s behaviour, Marco is almost certain that his cousin’s hopes of maintaining any sort of position in Bolognese society would be in ruins – for the governor of Bologna is a fanatical moralist.

It is quite certainly his only hope. He cannot raise the money, and knows he cannot outrun Sebastiano and his heavies for ever. He will just have rely upon his cousin’s desperation to maintain his social standing.

Wiping his nose with the back of his wrist, he slumps lower in his chair as a masked figure, wearing what looks like a couple of flour sacks cinched in at the waist, steps bent-kneed onto the stage, carrying a guitar. Staring out at the audience for a moment, the odd-looking man crosses the boards and seats himself on the barrel; he begins to play and sing, and the audience falls silent.

22

From his seat in the front row, Sebastiano is enjoying himself. He has just heard Maddalena cough quietly; she and her husband are just a few seats behind him. He does not turn to look at them. He would prefer not to let her know he is thinking about her. He is finding it hard to contain his delight in his new idea, and his gnawing fear of his creditors is, for the first time in weeks, beginning to recede. It is, he reasons with himself now, unthinkable that di Maccio will allow his, Sebastiano’s, revelation of his wife’s infidelity and corruption – and of di Maccio’s own impotence – to leak out into society, and the old man is easily wealthy enough to give Sebastiano everything he means to ask for, without really depleting his own coffers. It’s a perfect solution. He will whisper his intentions to him when the performers stop for a break in the middle of the play.