The Girl With the Painted Face (38 page)

Sofia nods.

‘We’ll over-winter somewhere – getting work where we can, preparing new material, rehearsing, performing indoors if we can secure a commission or two – and then we can start touring again properly in the spring, trying to establish ourselves in Toscana. Cosima suggested that we could go and present ourselves at the Villa Cafaggiolo – that’s down on the other side of the mountains. With Angelo’s family connections we might get ourselves a performance there and that would be a good start.’

‘Angelo’s connections? What do you mean?’

‘Cafaggiolo’s the summer residence of the Medicis, and the Duke of Ferrara married one of the Medicis a few years back. Angelo’s father is a second cousin, if you remember.’

Sofia puffs a breath in surprise. ‘The Medicis? Surely not! Do you really think a family that prestigious would be interested in a little troupe like —?’

‘Like us? Oh, I do hope so. Ago’s hopeful, anyway, Cosima says.’

The scandal of a murder
. Dreading the thought that the scandal might reach Cafaggiolo before the Coraggiosi and that everyone will blame her if it does, Sofia sighs and picks the jacket back up. Pushing her hand down inside one of the sleeves, she spreads her fingers out, holding the cloth tight across them so that she can begin to darn where the sleeve has worn thin over the elbow, a patch about the size of a large coin. She weaves the needle in and out of the remaining worn threads, back and forth, creating a fine mesh, then ducks into and out of this soft web, over and over, keeping the threads taut across her fingers. Slowly the patch starts to feel thicker and stronger.

They stop for the evening on the edge of the pretty town of Castel del Rio. Beppe volunteers to try to find some food and Sofia offers to go with him. They leave the rest of the troupe settling the huddle of wagons and the disgruntled horses on a patch of waste ground, and, with a woven straw basket looped over Sofia’s arm, they start to make their way through a number of narrow streets and down several sets of steps towards where voices and bustle can be heard.

‘Sounds as though there might still be a market in the main square,’ Beppe says.

Sofia bites down the question she fears will irritate him.
What do we do if there isn’t
? She knows what he will say if she asks:
We’ll find something. We always do. Don’t worry
. But she
is
worrying – she is worrying all the time. Her squirming anxiety is eating away at her. Every day she watches Beppe to see if she can read any reason for his new distance from her; every day she searches the faces of the troupe, covertly waiting for them to reveal what she is sure they must be concealing; waiting for them to say what she dreads hearing: that she has brought them bad luck, that she should go, should leave them to repair the damage she has caused.

She contents herself now by glancing up at Beppe and flicking him a quick smile when he catches her eye. He grips her fingers for a moment and smiles back, but his face is tense. His normally wide, tilted grin is tighter than usual and the skin around his eyes is dark, she thinks, almost bruised-looking. She tries to convince herself that this must be simply because he has walked much of the way from Bologna and must be exhausted.

‘There, look,’ he says now, pointing down the length of the little street. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’

A cramped square is filled with stalls. Several are displaying collections of knives, whose steel blades glint in the low light of the afternoon sun. Another is laden with vegetables: brightly coloured piles of
melanzane
and beans; asparagus; bunches of thin, finger-like carrots – yellow, dark red and orange; while one smaller stall has dozens of
finocchiona
sausages hanging from a stand, as thick and long as a man’s forearm and, even from several paces, redolent with the soft smell of fennel.

‘Shall we get one of those?’ Beppe says, pointing at the sausages.

Sofia nods. ‘One should be enough for all of us, shouldn’t it?’

‘Easily. And if we get a good load of vegetables, Cosima or Lidia will make a stew.’ He flashes her a quick smile. ‘Let’s hope it’s Lidia.’

Approaching the
finocchiona
stall, which is being tended by a girl not much older than Sofia, and nodding towards the dangling sausages, Beppe suggests a price for one which makes the girl laugh. At her laughter, he seems to shrug off his fatigue, and feigns taking offence, his hands on his hips, his mouth an irritable O, shaking his head in counterfeit annoyance, but the girl’s eyes dance and she starts fiddling her thumbnail between her teeth; she is, Sofia sees with a twinge in her belly, very much enjoying Beppe’s performance.

‘How about’, he says then, reaching across to the vegetable stall and picking up a handful of walnuts which click together in his palm, ‘a moment’s entertainment to make up for the… er… lack of
baiocchi
?’

He flips the nuts into the air and juggles with them for a few seconds. The girl – along with the owner of the vegetable stall – smiles widely and claps enthusiastically. Nodding his appreciation of the applause, Beppe puts the nuts back on the stall display and makes an extravagant, swaggering bow.

‘You win,’ the girl says. ‘After that, you’re welcome to it – even at that ridiculous price. Thank you!’

‘And come here,’ the vegetable man says. ‘You and your girl: come here and let’s see what we can do for you to go with that old sausage.’

Sofia smiles at him –a little comforted by his presumption of her connection with Beppe – and she moves in closer to the displays of vegetables.

‘What would you like?’ the stall man says. ‘You could make a nice warm potful with some of these…’ Picking up three turnips and a green-fronded bunch of carrots, he waves them at Sofia. ‘And some beans, and a couple of…’ The turnips and the carrots go into Sofia’s basket, and, reaching out, he takes up two large aubergines. ‘How would these do?’

‘How much?’

‘For a pretty thing like you? Ooh, now let’s see…’ He names a very reasonable price.

Sofia looks at Beppe, who nods. ‘Thank you, signore. That will be lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ Beppe pecks him a quick bow.

‘Just do that again, will you – with the nuts?’

‘What about with the turnips instead?’

‘Even better.’ He puts his hands to his mouth and shouts out across the square, ‘Hey! Giovanni! Lisabetta! Stefano! Come here and see something special! Not to be missed!’

Several people come from their stalls, arms folded, curious frowns in place between raised brows. Questions are asked, but the vegetable man shushes them and nods at Beppe, who quickly obliges with the turnips. The newly formed small crowd murmurs and gasps and finally applauds as Beppe flips the turnips up high and catches them for one last time in neatly cupped hands. He replaces them on the stall, then bows with a flourish.

Sofia claps too.

Coins are clinked in pockets, but Beppe says, ‘No, please, I wasn’t expecting anyone to pay anything. Only… if anyone has any bits of food they might not be needing, perhaps you can spare those instead.’

Lidia’s stew is thick, hot and filling and everyone eats well that evening. Huddled around the two braziers, warming their hands around their bowls, the troupe consumes the stew in hunger-driven silence, wiping out refilled bowls twice with hunks torn from the two big flat loaves given to Beppe and Sofia by a delighted baker after the juggling performance.

Normally, Sofia thinks now, after a good meal, Vico would be getting out his guitar, and he and Lidia would sing. Federico might tell a humorous story or two and everyone would laugh and add to it, turning it and twisting it, building it up into something which might one day become a fully-fledged scenario. Sofia knows of at least two of the Coraggiosi shows which began life as nothing more than a piece of after-supper silliness.

Tonight though, as there has been every evening since the departure from Bologna, there is a quietness about the troupe. Almost a melancholy. It is like being in a ship becalmed. The sails hang slack and useless and the water around them is glassy. She looks from face to face and sees the same expression on each – a flat, weary lack of enthusiasm – and it frightens her. Whatever Lidia says, whatever Beppe has repeated over and over, she feels responsible, and here, faced with this new and unprecedented apathy among her new and much-loved friends, a probing wire of guilt begins to needle her. She sits quietly next to Beppe for a while after the meal; his arm is around her shoulder, but, whereas even a few days ago, he would most likely have been fiddling with her sleeve, stroking her arm, squeezing her in close to him at intervals, planting a kiss every few minutes onto the top of her head, now his hand hangs still, fingers bent into a graceful curve. Sitting stiffly within this newly unenthusiastic embrace, she glances around at the others: Vico and Cosima are smiling; Lidia is now on her feet, collecting up the dirty bowls and spoons; Giovanni Battista is leaning in close to the brazier to warm his hands – all this should feel familiar and comfortable, but there is a detachedness about them all that is unnerving her badly.

Nobody speaks for several minutes and it seems to Sofia that the air between them all is thickening and stiffening, becoming harder to breathe, and suddenly she knows that she needs to get away from it – to be on her own for a while. Muttering to Beppe that her head is aching and that she needs to lie down, she slides out from under his arm, hoping that he will protest and follow her. He does not, but as she walks alone towards the oldest and smallest wagon, Ippo, the dog, scrabbles to his feet and trots after her, tail swinging slowly; he jumps up into the cart behind her. As Sofia flaps out a blanket and wraps it around herself, Ippo leaps up onto the little truckle bed with her and curls into the crook of her knees. Feeling tears stinging in the corners of her eyes, she scratches his fur, grateful for his company.

The voices of the rest of the troupe carry across the still evening air; much, but not all of what they say is clearly audible, and she holds her breath, desperate to hear more, dreading hearing some damning criticism of her part in their troubles.

Beppe stares into the flames in the brazier. Leaning forwards, he holds his hands out, aware of how much warmer his front is than his back. His feet are cold: heeling off his boots, he rubs each foot between his hands for a moment, then pulls the boots back on. A flat, damp weariness is making him feel frighteningly heavy and stale; he can see the same feelings reflected on every face around the brazier and, with a pang of trepidation, wonders, if this is the new reality for the troupe, how they are ever going to rally themselves out of this lassitude.

The loss of the territories has hit them hard.

Harder, Beppe thinks, than even Agostino predicted it would.

He realizes now how used the troupe has become to the comfortable familiarity of the towns and cities of Emilia-Romagna; how they have all – perhaps complacently – come to expect the cheering welcome offered by audiences who await their arrival with undisguised delight and make their enjoyment of the performances so abundantly clear time after time. The prospect of playing to possibly three-quarters-empty piazzas, of being run out of strange towns by unfriendly authorities and – perhaps worst of all – of having to research endlessly into the new territories to try to make any new material relevant to new audiences, is terrifying, and Beppe is sure that all the others are feeling the same.

Only Sofia will not understand the extent of what has been lost. Thinking of her now his heart turns over; he knows she feels responsible for it all, and knows too that he has been distant from her these past few days – he has been so wrapped up in his worries. He has not been fair to her. A rush of love for her sweeps through him, and, straightening, he determines to go to the wagon and tell her so right away, but —

‘… and apart from anything else, God knows how long it’s going to take to re-establish ourselves down here,’ Angelo is saying to nobody in particular in his aristocratic drawl, and Beppe pauses to listen.

Vico and Federico speak at once. Federico nods at Vico and repeats his comment. ‘Just keep your mouth shut, Angelo, if you have nothing constructive to say. We don’t need reminding.’

‘And who the hell do you think you are, telling me when to speak and what to say?’

Cosima raises placatory hands and begins to reply, but Vico interrupts her. ‘No, Cosima, Federico’s right. Shut up, Angelo. Cramming our problems down everyone’s throats all the time is only going to make it worse. We need to —’

‘I know you will all only shout me down,’ Angelo says, louder than before, ‘but I’m going to say it. I’m laying the blame at Sofia’s feet. If we hadn’t had her with us in Franceschina, we’d not be in this bloody predicament now, and —’

Beppe jumps to his feet, hands raised in incredulous anger. His soup bowl drops to the ground, cracking into two pieces. ‘What?
You
were the one who got her released in bloody Bologna! What were you
thinking
of, if you’re saying she —’

‘I did what I had to, nothing more.’

‘
What you had to?
What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I hardly think I need to explain it to you.’

Beppe’s hands have curled into fists. ‘Well, I think you do. What did you mean: you did
what you had to
?’

Angelo raises an eyebrow and shakes his head almost pityingly. Taking his time before he answers, tracing around the outline of his mouth with a finger, he says finally, ‘She didn’t kill him – I’m not denying that. And I don’t care to see innocent parties wrongly convicted —’

‘What?
What
did you say? You bloody hypocrite!’

‘Beppe – what —? What in heaven’s name…?’ Agostino’s face is crumpled with concern and lack of comprehension but Beppe takes no notice of him.

‘You fucking hypocrite, how you can stand there and say… after everything that…’ Anger closes his throat, and he tails off.

‘What are you
talking
about?’ Agostino says.