The Girl With the Painted Face (48 page)

‘Here we go – a couple of minutes,’ Simone says.

‘Sofia, are you ready?’ This from a huge-eyed Isabella, still hand in hand with her husband.

Sofia nods, hoping fervently that she is.

She sees Flaminio Scala, now staring up at the sky, shaking out his arms from fingertips to shoulders, sucking in a long breath and letting it out in a slow stream through a mouth puckered drawstring-tight. He and Simone will be opening this particular show, and Sofia watches as the two of them climb the little ladders up to the cramped space behind the backdrop. The reedy fanfare builds to a climax and ceases, leaving a long high note quivering across the piazza.

Then a plaintive tune begins, picked out on a lute from the side of the stage. Flaminio Scala pulls aside the backcloth, and he and Simone stride forwards.

Beppe has tucked himself in the shadows of an archway at the foot of the gigantic Torre degli Asinelli: the taller and straighter of the two central Bolognese towers. From here, he can see exactly who is doing what behind the backcloth, whilst remaining hidden.

He saw Sofia just now, deep in conversation with Simone da Bologna. The desire to run across the piazza and throw his arms around her almost overwhelmed him as he stood in the dark and watched the two of them talking with such animation, but, picturing her face in a few moments’ time, he presses a fist against his mouth and stays where he is.

‘
Speaking personally, I think I have been treated very shabbily
,’ Sofia’s Colombina says to Simone in his guise as Arlecchino. ‘
Very shabbily indeed
.’

The audience is a sea of faces, and every gaze is upon her.

‘
You don’t say! Ha! I could say the same thing about myself
,’ Simone mutters, scowling. ‘
That word –
shabbily –
just about sums up how everyone treats poor Arlecchino, most of the time
.’

‘
But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me – and the terrible things they have been saying about me
.’

Simone’s shoulders droop, as he tries to look contrite. ‘
I’m sorry
,’ he says in a voice of clearly deliberate sweetness, clasping his hands in front of his chest. ‘
You’re right – in fact, it would be fair to say that you have been quite swamped by misfortune.
’

Sofia draws in a breath. This is her moment. ‘
Misfortune?’
she says, glaring at Arlecchino for a moment, then turning her back on him and staring out across the piazza. ‘
There can be none greater than this! You might say that I am a creature of misfortune – in fact, if you sliced me in half,
’
she says, running a finger down her front from forehead to hip, ‘
you’d find a core of misfortune running down through me from head to toe. And what greater adversity can there be than to be… falsely accused?
’ She clutches a clenched fist to her chest. The audience has sniggered quietly as she has been speaking – she presumes that, behind her back, Simone is amusing them by being ‘bored’. Pointing an accusatory finger out at them, she says, ‘
Yes, I stand falsely accused! Not of an infidelity – no, they are not saying I’ve been found in someone else’s husband’s bed! Not of a petty theft – no, they are not saying that I pilfered some bunch of ribbons, or a length of lace, or even snipped a lady’s purse from her belt. No, I have been falsely accused… of
…’ Sofia sucks in a short breath and holds it. Turning, and pointing her finger towards Arlecchino, who is now sitting slumped on an upturned barrel with his chin in his hand, drumming his fingers on his knee, she says, ‘…
of
murder
!
’

Arlecchino jumps up, hopping from foot to foot in consternation. ‘
Of murder?
’ he says, and Sofia’s eyes widen at the sound of his voice.

‘
Yes, of murder
.’

‘
Who did you kill?
’ Even if the black mask and the woollen hat are hiding his features, the heavy, Bergamo accent is unmistakable. The hat is further back on his head than it was. And he is taller and thinner than Simone.

Sofia can hardly speak. In a voice that feels quite detached from the mouth that is uttering her words, she says, ‘
I said it was a
false
accusation
.’

Smacking himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand, Arlecchino then draws out his wooden bat and slaps it against the side of his leg with a ringing crack. ‘
Of course, that’s what you said, isn’t it? A
false
accusation.’
He points the bat at her
.
‘
So who did you kill – falsely?
’

Sofia walks towards him, as if sleepwalking. She stands and stares at him for what seems an age; then, hearing as though from a far distance that unmistakable hum of concern from an audience aware of a clearly unplanned silence, she swallows, shakes her head and finds her line. ‘
It… it won’t be a false accusation in a moment, it’ll be a real one, and it’ll be
you
lying dead on the floor, you fool, not some lecherous nobleman in the depths of his castle.
’

Arlecchino hangs his head like a scolded child and scuffs the trestle boards with the toe of his shoe.

‘
That horrible man is dead, even though I didn’t kill him. But somebody did.
’

‘
Who though? Did you see anyone there?
’

Fighting to make herself speak, she says, ‘
Of course I didn’t see, you stupid, stupid man. I’d tell you who it was, wouldn’t I, if I’d seen him? And
you
could go and kill him for me.’

Turning to the audience, Arlecchino shrugs high in open-mouthed disbelief, one finger pressed against his chest, the other hand out sideways, palm up, fingers splayed. ‘
Me?!
’ he mouths, pulling a face, and the audience laughs.

Sofia grabs his arm, but, raising it quickly, he dislodges her grip and reaching for her hand, he links his fingers through hers. She gasps, draws a breath and manages to say, ‘
Listen, someone out there has the truth festering within them – like a tumour – I’m sure of it. Find them for me, will you? Find out who did this? I don’t care how you do it – but find them.
’

Arlecchino cups her face in his hands – very, very gently – and kisses her full on the mouth. Sofia’s heart stands still. The audience draws in a collective breath. Then he says, in a ringing voice, ‘
I’ll do it. I’ll find him and kill him – just for you!
’

The audience cheers.

With Colombina’s hand firmly in his, Arlecchino walks down to the front of the stage. Gazing out at the audience, he says, ‘
Someone out there is wearing a piece of guilty knowledge tucked away inside his doublet. It’s curled like a snake against the skin of his chest. That little snake wriggles and writhes from time to time – most often when it hears mention of… certain events. Important events for the person inside whose doublet it is nestling. It must be wriggling now, don’t you think, signori and signore?
’
Wooden
batocchio
tucked under his arm, Arlecchino raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. ‘
Inside somebody’s shirt? When it’s just been listening to a tale of such misadventure as our lovely Colombina has been telling you? Now – the trouble with snakes is… if you’re not careful, they bite. It might not be just one person, either – that’s the thing about guilt. It’s infectious…’
Arlecchino snatches a look at Colombina; then, turning away, he puts a hand around the side of his mouth as though to keep his next loudly hissed utterance from her
.
‘…
like the pox.
’
The audience laughs, but the laugh dies fast, as Arlecchino points out at them again, and says in a ringing voice,
‘
One person did this terrible thing. One person – and he might be standing right next to you now, this very minute – one person picked up a dirty great candlestick and whacked a man on the back of the head with it – and killed him.
’
He stands silent for a moment, staring out at the audience. ‘
This city’s buzzing with the news, is it not? Somebody made that choice and now a man is dead. That somebody’s snake is probably particularly cold and slithery, and it most likely nips him quite often – just where it hurts most – when he’s least expecting it. But he won’t be alone: mark my words. There’ll be others too, with their own little vipers – perhaps someone who saw and hasn’t said. Someone who’s been told and is too scared to speak out. Someone who’s done the like before, themselves, and won’t risk exposure. They’ll all have their own wrigglers inside their shirts. You see if I’m not right.
’

Sofia cannot take her eyes from him. She stares and stares at him as he strides right to the front of the stage, pulls out his wooden bat, crouches down on his heels and points it at a man near the front of the crowd. ‘
What about you, signore? Got a wriggler? Or you, signora, tucked down inside that very lovely bodice…’
Putting a hand down to the trestle floor, he leans out, craning his neck towards an amply bosomed woman to his left. ‘
A chilly little wriggler right down in there?
’
He snorts, then licks his lips, sketching the outline of the woman’s generous proportions with his hands. ‘
Ha!
Can’t imagine
that
one will want to come out very often.
’
A snickering laugh trickles around the audience. ‘
Laugh if you will
,’ Arlecchino says now, straightening, scowling and pointing the bat again, ‘
But if you’re one of those people – the people who know, and won’t say; the people who suspect but daren’t admit – then expect your writhing little worm of guilt to grow and swell and become more and more of a nuisance to you. Because the only thing that gets rid of a guilt-wriggler is an admission. You think about it
.’

There is a clatter of footsteps on the stage behind them. Sofia turns, knowing full well that it will be Flaminio Scala, striding out as planned in his ridiculous long-nosed mask. Arlecchino grabs her hand. ‘
Quick!
’ he says. ‘
We have to go! We don’t want to be caught here by that pompous old windbag – we’ll never get away!
’ Turning back to the audience, he says, ‘
Don’t forget what I said – it’ll only get bigger and colder and wrigglier and end up by strangling you!
’ Then, with Sofia’s fingers laced through his, he runs across the stage and pushes his way through the gap in the backcloth.

Beppe cannot speak. Pushing his mask up and off his face so that it falls to the floor with a clatter, he puts his arms around Sofia and, without a word, he kisses her. His mouth is on hers, and her hands are in his hair, and her body is pressing against his, soft and pliant and eager. Stepping backwards, he feels the heavy folds of the backdrop shift behind him – another step in that direction and they will be on the stage. The ladder leading down from the trestles is a pace to the right.

‘Go back down the steps.’

As Sofia reaches back with her foot to find the first rung of the ladder, Beppe lets go of her, vaults down off the trestles and then lifts his arms to her; she turns to him and he picks her off the ladder, starting to kiss her again even before her feet have reached the ground. They lean together against the ladder, arms around each other, so entirely engrossed in their embrace that they hear nothing of the stream of hissed comments that are now coming from Simone da Bologna.

‘Quick! Stop it – let go of each other! You’re on stage again in a minute! Sofia! Signor Bianchi, you’ll have to wait until we —’

Neither Sofia nor Beppe are listening, though Beppe feels his shoulder being roughly shaken, and vaguely hears, as though from a distance, Simone da Bologna hiss-calling, ‘Prudenza! Quick, come here.’

Beppe, his mouth on Sofia’s, one hand at her back, the other in her hair, feels as though he could never have enough of her. He cannot hold her close enough. She is wriggling in against him, making soft little sounds of pleasure – not words, just inarticulate half-sighs – as she kisses him. Then other, bigger, male hands take hold of his upper arms and pull him back, away from Sofia. He jerks away, trying to free himself from whoever is holding him, but a laughing voice says, ‘Don’t worry – just get the jacket off him, will you? I’ll take over – but I need my costume. And hurry! My cue is in a moment or two!’

The same hands reach around him from behind and Beppe feels unknown fingers beginning to unfasten the diamond-patterned jacket.

‘Prudenza, get the dress off Sofia.’

Beppe hears a squeak from Sofia, and feels her grip on the back of his neck tightening as she is pulled backwards away from him. For a moment their bodies are held apart from each other, though they struggle to maintain their kiss and their mouths are still touching. Beppe feels the jacket being pulled off him, first one sleeve jerked down over an arm, then the second, and, glancing behind Sofia, he sees a dark-haired, plump woman, frantically unpinning and unlacing Colombina’s dress and easing open the back of the bodice. She crouches behind Sofia for a moment and Beppe hears her amused voice, saying, ‘Quick,
cara
, step out of the skirts, will you?’

Sofia obliges, her arms now back around Beppe. She is dressed now only in shift and underskirt, he in nothing but the diamond-patterned leggings. He can feel her hands on the skin of his chest and back.

Simone’s voice says, ‘I’m not even going to try getting the leggings off him – I’ll have to use my old ones. But where’s my mask?’

‘He dropped it up there, look.’

Another, unfamiliar voice. ‘Here are the leggings, Simone.’

After a moment’s frantic rustle of clothing, there is a muttered oath, then footsteps on the ladder, followed by a brief burst of applause and a couple of whistles from the crowd.

The play unfolds behind and above Beppe and Sofia, and they take in not one word of it: it is no more than a jumble of noise, interspersed with laughter and clapping. Seated as they are at the foot of the ladder, entwined in each other’s arms, there are moments of interruption when unknown pairs of legs step over and around them, muttering apologies – once or twice Beppe thinks he hears a smothered snort of amusement – but not for a second does it occur to either of them to pause, to stop what they are doing, to search for a more suitable place to resume their rediscovery of each other.