The Girl With the Painted Face (44 page)

Running her fingers up into her hair, she starts to pick at the tangles in her curls, teasing them out wisp by wisp, wishing she had thought to put a comb into the bag of belongings she snatched from the box beneath the truckle bed in the smallest wagon, for her hair is badly knotted in several places now. She eases the bag open, and tips the contents out into her lap: a spare shift; the two long crimson ribbons, tied together in a now-crumpled bow… and Beppe’s old black woollen hat – the spare, the one he no longer uses. She holds this to her nose too, and tears spike sharp in the corners of her eyes; it still smells of him and, as she closes her eyes, it is as though he is there in front of her.

‘But he wishes he’d never met me, doesn’t he?’ she mutters. ‘He says I’m trouble.’ Clutching the hat in both hands, she holds it against her mouth for a moment, then stuffs hat, shift and ribbons back into the bag. Adjusting her bodice so that it sits more comfortably, she leaves the upstairs room. Her soft footsteps are accompanied by the click-claw scrabbling of Ippo’s paws as she hurries downstairs to where Niccolò is sitting by the now extinct fire. Only ash and a strong smell of woodsmoke remains.

He pushes a basket of bread and a bowl of apricots across the table towards her. ‘Eat, child. We might be a long time on our feet today. I have bought milk too. Here, look.’ He slides a tin mug of milk towards her.

Sofia tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the milk. ‘Do you think there might be some scraps for Ippo?’ she says as the dog noses against her knee.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’

Niccolò raises a hand, and the ale-man stumps over. He does not answer Niccolò’s request – he merely shrugs and walks away – but within seconds, he has returned with a pewter bowl half filled with torn scraps of meat, bread, cheese rinds and a marrow-bone, shiny with glistening red shreds, which he places on the floor near Sofia’s chair. Ippo, tail wagging furiously, drops his head and begins to eat.

‘Violetta had oats last night,’ Niccolò says now. ‘The ale-man says she may stay here at the tavern until tomorrow. She will be glad of the rest. Ippo can stay in the stable with her.’

Sofia nods, her mouth now too full of bread to answer.

The Piazza di Porta Ravegnana is indeed crowded, even at the early hour at which Niccolò and Sofia arrive there. Market stalls have been crammed into every available space and the crowd is busily pushing its way from place to place, haggling, laughing, arguing, shouting; spending money and making it in equal measures.

Sofia watches as Niccolò begins to search for information. Staying close, she says nothing as he charms his chosen targets as effortlessly as she remembers him doing back in Modena the day she first met him.

‘Busy here today, is it not, signora?’ he is saying now to a large lady in a richly embroidered blue dress.

‘Oh, indeed it is, signore. I have to say I cannot be doing with it for much longer.’

‘I heard that there was something of a riot here in the city not long ago.’

‘A riot, signore?’ The woman sounds shocked.

‘So I was told – perhaps you know more than I do. Over in the Piazza Maggiore.’ Niccolò jerks his head in the direction of the piazza, lowering his voice to something of a thrilling whisper. ‘An accusation of… murder, someone told me.’

‘Murder? A riot? Oh
cielo
!’

Sofia sees Niccolò smile sweetly at his companion’s ignorance. ‘My dear signora, please do not trouble yourself! I have clearly been misinformed.’ He bows neatly and turns away, leaving the large lady staring after him.

A few seconds later he tries again – with no success.

And again.

And again.

And then… ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘so I heard. In the Piazza Maggiore.’

His new friend – a young man in a leather jerkin and dirty canvas breeches – is nodding vigorously. ‘You heard right. I was there. At the back of the crowd.’

At this, Sofia’s eyes widen and she takes a step back. What if she is recognized? But the young man seems not to notice her; his attention is firmly on Niccolò.

‘Do tell me about it, signore.’

The young man grins and begins to expound upon the events of that day, gesticulating wildly, enjoying the effect that his narrative is having upon his listener – for Niccolò is making sure to encourage him, with nods and smiles and sucked-in shocked breaths. ‘And then… then that fat old pile of offal, da Budrio, God rot him, as good as
admits
that he’d got it wrong and that the little bitch is innocent, and he tells the lot of us to bugger off.’

‘And did you all do as you were told? Did you – bugger off?’

‘You’re damned right we did. After some poor sod spoke out and got himself roundly thumped and dragged off by the bloody
sbirri
. I wasn’t hanging about there to get picked up and thrown into the cell they’d just booted the girl out of, was I?’

Niccolò again lowers his voice to the thrill-soaked stage whisper. ‘And did you… did you ever find out… who did the deed? If the girl didn’t?’

Sofia holds her breath.

The young man leans in towards Niccolò. ‘I heard tell’, he says in a sibilant hiss, ‘that they’ve searched the castle where it happened – from top to bottom – and have found nothing. Nothing at all.’

Disappointment floods down into Sofia’s belly.

‘Never mind,
cara
,’ Niccolò says, his arm now around Sofia’s shoulders. ‘Never mind. You didn’t think we would discover what we came searching for on the first morning, did you?’

‘No, of course not.’ Colour floods into her face at the lie.

‘We’ll just keep trying.’

A sudden flurry of movement shifts the crowd around them, and a blare of loud and joyous music pushes its way into the piazza. Thinking of the Coraggiosi, Sofia is suddenly awash with confusion, as a desire to see Beppe – so strong it all but knocks her over – fights with a dread of meeting him and seeing the rejection she knows will be clearly visible on his face. She stares about her, searching for the origin of the sound.

A pair of pretty white ponies with bright ribbons fluttering in their manes and tails, ridden by two young boys, struts ahead of a procession – a procession of characters so familiar to Sofia that seeing them here, she holds her breath. Two masked men – the phallic-nosed and ridiculous Il Capitano
and the white-eyebrowed, huge-bellied Dottore – stride along in front, arguing vehemently, and deliberately ignoring the clapping of the fast-gathering crowd. Behind them, their steps so light and delicate they might almost be dancing, come the Lovers. The woman is younger than Cosima: fair-haired and sweet-faced, with tiny hands and feet, while her companion is older, taller, broader-shouldered than Angelo; he is good-looking, though not, Sofia thinks, as startlingly handsome as Angelo. As Cosima and Angelo have done so often, though, these two are smiling out at the crowd, throwing flowers and sweetmeats towards reaching hands, acknowledging the many cheers and whistles with flourishes of their elegant hands. Several other
zanni
-masked figures stumble along behind them, and then there he is: Arlecchino.

Sofia’s heart turns over.

But of course it is not Beppe. This man is shorter, stockier than Beppe. He wears his hat further forward, pushed over to one side. Despite the instantly recognizable diamond-patterned leggings and jacket, despite the familiar crack of the wooden bat, there can be no confusion: this man’s movements, though agile and funny, are nothing like Beppe’s wild, fluid, weightless tumblings.

Beppe or not, Sofia cannot take her eyes from him.

‘Oh my good Lord… this is the Gelosi,’ Niccolò whispers in her ear, his eyes shining. ‘We’ve spoken about them often, have we not, the Gelosi? Probably the most successful troupe in Italy at the moment. That’s Isabella Andreini, and that’ – he points to the broad-shouldered Lover – ‘that’s her husband, Francesco. The one at the front – Il Capitano – I think that must be Flaminio Scala. He writes all their material. My word, we’re lucky to see them.’

‘Do you know them, then?’ Sofia says, tearing her gaze from where Arlecchino is now hopping along on one foot, clutching the other, with his mouth wide open as though in agony.

Niccolò shakes his head. ‘Not in the way I know the Coraggiosi
,
’ he says. ‘Not as friends. I met Francesco Andreini once, a couple of years ago, that’s all. A good man, I thought.’

‘Oh, Niccolò, do you think they might…?’

‘What? Your idea?’

Sofia nods.

‘You’ll have to ask them, child. I simply couldn’t say. This is the Gelosi, not just any troupe. But if they agree, then you could have no one better to help you accomplish what you want to do.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Of course, though I’m going to leave everything to you – it will come better from you. We can follow them now – it looks as though they are intending to perform here in the Porta Ravegnana, doesn’t it? Best venue in the city – as we know.’

‘Come on then, we’ll need to talk to them before they start to prepare for their performance.’ With her hand tightly grasping Niccolò’s, Sofia begins to push her way through the crowd, pulling him along behind her, towards where the last of the troupe’s four big bright wagons is now entering the piazza.

‘Yes, this afternoon. We will start as the clock in the piazza chimes three, signore. Not a moment before and not a moment later! But if you will excuse me, we have a stage to set up, and preparations to make. I’ll look forward to seeing you at three!’ And Signora Isabella Andreini kisses the tips of her fingers and blows the kiss neatly towards an eager-faced man, who pretends to catch it; he holds it in a fist against his lips, grinning broadly.

Her wide smile fading to a practical determination as she turns away, Isabella Andreini pushes her fingers up into her hair. ‘Francesco, where exactly do you want to set the stage?’ she says.

‘Over there.’ Francesco Andreini points to a spot almost exactly where the Coraggiosi pitched their stage a few weeks before. ‘Just in front of the taller of the towers. Where we set last time – I think it worked well, don’t you?’

Signora Andreini nods.

Sofia watches as she walks back to the wagons.

Niccolò nudges her. ‘Go on, ask!’ he says, almost under his breath.

Sofia glances at him. ‘Are you sure I should…?’

‘Yes – go on!’

Sucking in a breath, Sofia follows the woman and stops near her as they reach the wagon. The woman turns, inclining her head curiously as she sees Sofia.

‘Signorina? Are you hoping to come and see the show?’

‘No – oh, I’m sorry, I mean yes, of course… but that’s not why…’ Sofia finds herself stuttering, and stumbling over her words, but the sweet-faced woman smiles.

‘What is it, signorina? Can I help you with something?’

‘Oh dear God, I hope so.’ Sofia holds Isabella Andreini’s gaze steadily.

Signora Andreini frowns briefly, then reaches out a hand. ‘Come with me,’ she says, stepping up onto the first step of the wagon. ‘Come in and tell me whatever it is that you very clearly need to say. I’ll need to be quick – we have a stage to set – but I can see that whatever it is, is important.’

Inside the wagon, another young woman, visibly with child, is seated on an untidy pile of blankets on one of three narrow truckle beds. She too frowns curiously at the sight of the stranger.

‘Prudenza, do you mind if we talk in here?’

‘No, of course not. Do you want me to leave?’

Signora Andreini shakes her head. ‘No, no, stay.’ She points to a painted stool, inviting Sofia to sit. ‘Now, signorina, tell me what you want.’

Drawing in a long breath, Sofia says, ‘Until a few days ago, I was playing Colombina with the Coraggiosi.’

She sees Signora Andreini flick a glance over to where the girl called Prudenza is now intently staring at the two of them.

‘Until a few days ago?’ Signora Andreini says. ‘Are you… what was the name?’ She clicks her fingers, trying to summon the information. ‘Genotti? That’s it. Are you Sofia Genotti?’

Startled, Sofia nods.

‘I’ve heard of you.’ As Sofia frowns in incomprehension, Signora Andreini adds, ‘Word travels fast in our profession. News of a new talent in particular spreads quickly.’

‘Oh.’ Sofia stares at her, not knowing what to say.

‘So, what was it you wanted to say, signorina?’

‘Oh. Oh, yes. Er – I don’t know if you heard about what happened at the Castello della Franceschina a few days ago…?’

‘Yes, I had heard – as I say, news spreads quickly. Though of course I don’t know if I have been told an accurate version of events. The Coraggiosi have been… sent away from Bologna, is that right?’

Sofia nods, her cheeks flaming. Hesitating, she says, ‘Because of me. I was accused of… of murder, signora. God, that sounds so terrible – I didn’t do it.’ She looks up at the roof of the wagon for a second. ‘Of course I didn’t do it. They accused me, but they had to let me go, because there was no evidence. Agostino and the troupe had collected an enormous crowd, back in the Piazza Maggiore, to demand my release – really enormous, hundreds of people – and I think it frightened the authorities into letting me go. But I know that they still think I did it, and that’s why they sent the troupe away.’

Signora Andreini and the girl called Prudenza are both staring at Sofia now. ‘We had heard something of this – battered over the head, wasn’t he, the man?’ Isabella says.

Sofia nods. ‘With an iron candlestick, they told me.’

‘How dreadful.’

‘Yes. He was not a good man – but yes, it’s terrible. Oh, signora, I want to know who really did do it!’ She pauses. ‘Because if they find out the truth, they might lift the banishment order and allow us back into Emilia-Romagna.’ She hears in her head what she has just uttered, and amends her sentence. ‘Allow
them
back.’

‘What do you want from me? Why are you telling me this? Why do you say “them” like that? Have they thrown you out – the Coraggiosi?’

‘No!’ Sofia hesitates. ‘It’s not as simple as that, but —’

A voice shouts outside the wagon, interrupting her. ‘Isabella! Prudenza! We need you! Are you coming?’