The Girl With the Painted Face (43 page)

‘Perfect.’

‘And then Francesco will come in, unsuspecting, and I shrink back into the shadows and watch as he crosses the stage. Yes?’

‘Exactly. I want them to fear for what you might be tempted to do. They’ll know, won’t they, that you still have the little knife?’

Isabella smiles and nods. ‘They’ll just have seen me tuck it up my sleeve, Flaminio, as we arranged.’

‘Good girl. We’ll work on the next scene – the mad one – this afternoon.’

‘Food now, though, I think, don’t you?’

‘And an ale or two, I’d say.’ Flaminio puts the flute to his lips. As he and Isabella walk over towards where a dozen or so others are clustered around a brazier, on which a large iron pot is steaming, he starts to play a merry dance tune, and Isabella’s steps fall quickly into a three-beat rhythm to match it. Arms in the air, she twirls on her toes and her skirts bell out around her.

‘Come here! Sit down and eat,
cara
,’ calls a man in a brightly embroidered doublet, raising a hand to beckon Isabella over to where he is seated near the brazier. ‘Prudenza has made a stew worthy, I would hazard the opinion, of public acclaim.’

A plump girl of about twenty, noticeably pregnant, smiles and shoves the brightly embroidered man in the shoulder. ‘It’s a pot full of mutton and turnips, as well you know, Francesco.’

‘Aaah! But what kingly turnips, Prudenza, what kingly turnips.’

Isabella kisses Francesco as she sits down next to him, accepting a bowl of stew and a large hunk of bread. ‘Thank you, Prudenza, you’re a wonder. I’m
so
hungry, I shall probably end up eating the bowl as well.’

Prudenza pulls a face. ‘Might be tastier than the stew.’

‘Mmm – it’s lovely. Thank you,’ Isabella says thickly, wiping a stray drop of gravy from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her ring finger.

Putting his flute down carefully on an upturned barrel, Flaminio Scala helps himself to a bowlful and, standing facing the rest of the assembled people – seven men, three women and two small boys – and pointing at them with his spoon, he says, ‘Well, Gelosi, we perform in two days’ time. I’m delighted with you all. Since our sojourn in France, we have improved beyond all expectations, and I confidently expect
Arlecchino Goes to the Moon
to be the raging success it deserves to be.’

Someone starts picking at the strings of a guitar. The tune he plays is haunting and sweet and, before more than a few notes have rung out, a girl begins to sing along with him. Two others join in, and the tightly harmonized song spirals up into the crispness of the October air like tendrils of smoke. A dog begins to bark, as though in competition with the song, and one of the assembled men pushes it with the toe of his boot to quieten it.

33

‘Do you think Anna is upset not to have been able to come with us?’ Sofia asks.

Niccolò shakes his head. ‘No, no, no, no. Franco needs her, and she wouldn’t want to leave him on his own, anyway. They’ve divided up their working tasks between them so well now, it would be hard for one or the other to take over the whole, I think. And I’ve left Bacca with them, too, haven’t I? They were pleased to have him. He’s a good little dog, and I think he’ll like the life there better than whatever cramped old journey we’re about to have in the cart. I’d planned to take him with me next time I went on the road, but two dogs might have been difficult to handle in such a small space, don’t you think?’

Scratching Ippo’s ears, Sofia nods. ‘I liked Anna very much.’

‘And she you.’

‘Oh, Niccolò, do you think so? I couldn’t help thinking that she resented my being there and then taking you away.’

‘You didn’t take me away, child. I chose to come with you.’ Niccolò smiles and pats Sofia’s hand. ‘There is not a chance I could possibly have let you set off on your own.’

The donkey’s long ears are pinned back, and her steps are staccato and prim, ringing out against the hard road. The little cart jolts and squeaks.

‘You remind me of Anna,’ Niccolò says now. ‘You reminded me of her that first day I met you in Modena. Strong and independent and determined.’

Feeling at that moment frightened and tired and tremblingly unsure of herself, Sofia does not know what to say to this.

‘That’s why I wanted to help you so much, I suppose,’ Niccolò says, smiling. ‘I imagined how I would feel if it was Anna – how much I’d hope that someone would do for her what I was able to do for you. She’s a good girl. I brought her up alone, and she’s made me very proud.’

Touched, Sofia nods. ‘I liked her very much.’

Niccolò pats her hand again and they travel on for several minutes without speaking. Violetta has put her ears forward now and picked up speed; she is trotting with purpose, it seems, and they cover the ground quickly. They stop for an hour or two in a little town, but Niccolò is determined to make as much progress as Violetta will allow.

‘I’d like us to get to Castel San Pietro by nightfall.’

‘Castel San Pietro?’

‘The tavern-owner there is a good friend of mine. After a night’s sleep, with luck we should make Bologna by tomorrow evening.’

Sofia glances across at him. ‘If the authorities find out I’m there…’

‘Why should they? You won’t be with the Coraggiosi…’

Sofia bites her lip.

‘… and it’s the troupe they’ll be watching out for, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. What are we going to do when we get there?’

Niccolò frowns. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure. But I know how these things work. If you trust to the good Lord – or to fate, or to whatever you believe to be most trustworthy – something usually turns up. We need to ask around, find out what people are saying about what happened at Franceschina – delicately, of course. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’

It is Sofia’s turn to frown. ‘But what if we do this – ask around – and we find out that no one knows anything? Then we will be none the wiser, and I shall be…’ Tailing off, thoughts of Beppe flood into her mind again. She pictures him first in shirtsleeves and grubby breeches, barefoot, practising his tumbling, over and over until the move is perfected. Then she sees him on stage, masked and wearing his wild, diamond-patterned jacket and trousers, declaiming some spouted piece of nonsense, flipping head over heels in frustration when whichever character he is haranguing fails to understand him. And then, as this second image of Beppe plays itself out in her head, an idea occurs to her – a startling idea which makes her draw in her breath. Though how she will accomplish it alone, she cannot begin to imagine.

‘Is something troubling you, child?’ Niccolò asks.

Sofia shakes her head. ‘No. But I’ve just thought… Listen, tell me what you think?’ And she explains the idea. By the time she has finished, Niccolò is smiling – the widest and happiest smile she has seen on his face since the day he introduced her to the Coraggiosi.

‘That is a brilliant idea. We’ll have to find a way, child,’ he says. ‘A way will most definitely have to be found.’

There is a small piazza in the centre of the little town of Pianoro; it is cramped and overlooked on all sides by buildings in varying stages of dilapidation, but on the east side is a well. Fed by a spring, the sweet water bubbles up into a squat, square stone basin and trickles out again through a hole in one corner. Squatting in front of it, Beppe cups his hands and scoops up palmfuls, over and over, till he has quenched his thirst. Giglio, the mare, dips her muzzle into the water too, and sucks noisily, splashing a great deal of water over the sides of the basin and onto the cobbles.

Beppe waits for her to finish; then, patting her neck, he walks her around the edge of the piazza towards where an archway leads off towards the north.

‘Only about ten miles to Bologna. We’ll stay there a day or so, give you a bit of a rest, then move on to Modena. Are you up to that, chick?’

Giglio tosses her head and snorts.

Gathering up the reins, Beppe pulls the mare in close to a low wall. Scrambling up onto the wall, he vaults onto her back again and, clicking his tongue, gives her a soft kick. She breaks easily into a shambling trot.

As they make their way northwards out of the town and turn onto the long road which leads directly up to Bologna, Beppe is thinking of Sofia. The thought that he might not be able to find her flaps about him like a lime-trapped bird. Modena is where he thinks she will be; he begins to plan the quickest route there. A thought strikes him. ‘Now I have you,’ he says to the mare, ‘it’d be possible to cut across country to Vignola and go directly up to Modena from there – it’d certainly be quicker than heading north now, going through Bologna and then going off west past Castelfranco.’ He pats the mare’s neck. ‘What do you think, chick? Would you be happy to go over the hills? Get off the roads?’

But, as though in answer, even as he speaks, the mare stumbles over a loose stone and pecks forward. Without a saddle, Beppe lurches up onto her neck, and it is only with luck and by clutching inelegantly at a fistful of mane that he manages to remain seated. ‘Or maybe not,’ he says, patting the mare’s neck again. ‘Perhaps it would be foolish to move away from the roads. I need to be where Sofia is most like to be. I can’t imagine her setting off across the hills on her own. I hope to God she’d not think of doing it, anyway.’

They trot on for several miles, largely in thought-filled silence, broken only spasmodically by brief conversations with fellow travellers, until the road splits into two. One branch – the wider, better-maintained of the tracks – wends slightly northwards, heading towards Bologna, while the other – in fact little more than an untended path – heads more directly west.

‘Modena?’ a young traveller told him just now. ‘Oh yes… I doubt it’s much more than a day’s ride. If you go down to – look, can you see,
amico
?’ He points. ‘That stunted-looking tree down there? Go left there, that’ll set you on the right path for Modena.’

Beppe and the mare stand where the road divides.

It takes a moment to make up his mind which one of the two paths he will take.

34

Bologna

Sofia sat on this very bench with Beppe, less than a fortnight ago, she realizes as she looks about her. She can almost feel him there still, almost sense the weight of his arm around her shoulders. She runs her fingers over the wood, and a great sigh shudders in her chest as she breathes it out. Ippo lays his muzzle on her lap and his tail thuds softly on the stone floor. Sofia strokes his head.

The tavern is almost empty. A small group of clearly inebriated but cheerful men has clustered by the fire – they are laughing together at something Sofia cannot hear – but apart from them, the place is deserted, and the under-worked ale-man has a distinct air of irritation about him as he busies himself ordering his barrels and bottles, and rinses glasses in a large wooden bucket. Lit by a couple of dozen stumpy candles, the room flickers and bobs in the shifting light, seeming almost to breathe as the flames move in the many draughts.

‘So where do we go now?’ Sofia says. ‘What do we do?’

‘We rest for tonight,’ Niccolò says. ‘That’s for certain. Then we can start wandering in the morning, and talking to people. We’ll start in the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana – there’s always a crowd there. Leave it to me to start with.’

‘Ravegnana? But – that’s where I first met…’

Niccolò nods.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Sofia says, ‘And what about…’

‘What – your splendid idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, well. That will all depend on who we meet, will it not? On who happens to be in town at the moment? We might be lucky – I hope to God that we are. In fact,’ Niccolò says, patting the back of Sofia’s hand, ‘I feel the Almighty
owes
us a crumb of good fortune. We have both had a surfeit of the opposite up until now, I feel.’

The following morning dawns crisp and clear; the sun has a clean white brightness about it, and the sky is the colour of damascened steel. Seeing that Niccolò has already left the upstairs room, Sofia dresses quickly. She has only the yellow skirt and bodice in which she left Castel del Rio so hurriedly; it was pretty once, but now, after so many days on the road, it is starting to look distinctly worn; the hem, she sees now, is filthy and stiff with spattered mud and dust. Picking up a double-handful of the skirt, she holds it to her nose, and grimaces at the sharp, unwashed smell. She is quite as dirty as the day she met the Coraggiosi
.