The Girl With the Painted Face (49 page)

‘
Oh my word, but I am truly a fool,
’ he says indistinctly, in between kisses. ‘
And you will never forgive me, will you?
’
He wonders if Sofia will remember the lines.

‘
No, now that you mention it, I’m not sure that I shall.
’

She mutters the response, her words almost indistinguishable as her mouth is on his, and he cannot help smiling.

‘
Just one more chance?
’ he says, pulling back for a second and holding her gaze. ‘
One more very small… extremely insignificant… little chance?
’

She stares at him, her expression taut and serious, and Beppe holds his breath. Then her face dissolves into a wide smile and her eyes are sparkling with tears. ‘
Very well. Just one
.’ A pause. ‘
One last
.’

They carry on kissing as the final prolonged burst of applause from the crowd fills the air. They fail to stop even as the actors burst through the hanging and jostle down the ladder, stumbling over them, apologizing; one or two of them laugh and clap at the sight of the two oblivious lovers, while another offers a decidedly lewd suggestion as to what they should best do next and where.

38

‘What did you say he called me?’

‘An
underage
bardassa
with the morals of a tomcat
, I think it was,’ Marco says, shaking his head, fiddling a shred of dry skin on his lip between his teeth. The tavern table in front of him is stained with ale and pitted with worm holes, and the tallow candle stub, stuck straight onto the wood, is giving out little more than a fitful, flickering, sheep-smelling glow.

Fabio da Correggio raises an eyebrow. Blowing out his cheeks and letting the air puff out of his mouth, he says, ‘How bloody rude.’ Then, grinning, he adds, ‘Though I suppose he wasn’t that far wrong, really, was he? Bastard.’ The grin fades. ‘God, though, I’d never have wanted that sort of an end for him. He was our cousin. Terrible. And they haven’t caught whoever did it?’

Marco’s heart flips over as he looks at his cousin: slight, smooth-cheeked, as fine-featured as many of the women of his acquaintance, as gaudily dressed as any of the performers at that last play. He decides to tell him the truth. ‘No. They haven’t. And you and I are getting off up to Verona fast, before they have time to think of accusing
me
.’

Fabio grins at him. ‘You
didn
’
t
do it, did you?’

‘No I bloody didn’t!’ His voice comes out higher-pitched than he meant. There have been so many moments, since he sat in that room at Franceschina with Sebastiano’s body, staring at the seeping stain on the pillow around his cousin’s head, when he has anxiously wondered if he might have done. Done it and somehow forgotten. Though he knows he could never have lifted the candlestick and… and brought it down onto the back of Sebastiano’s head like that, every time he has heard people speculating about the possible identity of the killer over the past few days he has felt heat rising in his face, and has dreaded an unstoppable rush of colour proclaiming a guilt he knows he does not possess. Or
hopes
he does not possess. Because how many times had he in fact wished his cousin dead? On how many occasions, facing yet more of Sebastiano’s snide comments and menace-heavy threats, did he wish he could just draw his dagger and put an end to it? Is that enough to make him guilty? It feels strangely as though it might be. God, he wishes now that he had never borrowed money from Sebastiano in the first place – in fact he is astonished that, given his own debts and insecurities, Sebastiano ever agreed to lend him a single
scudo
.

Perhaps blood ties do matter after all.

‘What shall we be doing in Verona?’ Fabio says into his thoughts, and Marco looks up at his other, younger cousin, whose mouth has now curled into a cat-like smirk of anticipatory excitement. He swallows uncomfortably. Sebastiano might repeatedly have risked too much for his laudanum and his desire for a beautiful woman, but he, Marco, knows that he is perhaps just as reckless in the pursuit of his own addiction. He is all too aware that Fabio is nothing but trouble; he knows that Fabio cares nothing for anyone but himself; he is quite certain that as soon as the first hint of possible excitement somewhere else reaches Fabio’s ears, the boy will be off, abandoning Marco without a qualm. But still he craves his young cousin’s company – he longs for it – and he knows he will lap up every second of it he is offered, like a starving cat. He relishes the prospect of this trip to Verona with him, however terrible the reason for its undertaking: Fabio will be his alone for at least the next few days. Unless they meet someone who takes Fabio’s fancy in a tavern or on a street corner, of course.

‘In Verona?’ he says. ‘Oh, we’ll find somewhere to live first – then I want to look up a moneylender friend of mine. What we do might depend on how generous he’s feeling at the moment.’

Fabio laughs and Marco watches his small white teeth gleam in the candlelight.

39

The ugly donkey’s taut hoof-beats ring out into the silence of the still evening and the iron-wrapped wheels of the little cart crunch over the loose stones of the track. A chilly mist has already risen as the October evening has begun to draw in, wreathing itself around trees and bushes, and hanging like a thick cobweb low over the ground. Spiralling wisps of the mist curl away from the cart as the donkey trots on down the ditch-bound track as though through watered milk.

Niccolò has his thickest woollen coat over his shoulders, while Sofia has bundled herself in two blankets: one around her shoulders, the other tucked over her knees. Ippo is sprawled across her lap. She is warmly wrapped but, even so, her fingers and toes are stiff with cold and she has been wriggling them repeatedly to try to prevent them from numbing.

Only Beppe seems unaffected by the sharp nip in the air. Dressed only in breeches and shirt and his old leather doublet – the one Sofia likes best – he has an arm around her shoulders and she can feel the heat from his body where he is pressed against her.

‘There they are, look – over there,’ he says, pointing. ‘Can you see the smoke?’

‘Where? Oh yes, I see. Is that really them? Can you be sure?’

‘They said they’d stay put until I got back. That’s where I left them.’

‘How long, Niccolò?’

Niccolò pats her knee. ‘A few minutes perhaps. No more. Just as well – I think poor Violetta has had quite enough of being on the road.’

‘Oh, do let’s hurry – I so want to see them all.’

‘Shall we send Ippo on ahead when we get a bit nearer?’ Beppe suggests.

The dog’s ears prick at the sound of his name and he lifts his head.

Ruffling his ears, Sofia smiles. ‘Oh yes – like a harbinger.’

Beppe raises an eyebrow and grins. ‘A very scruffy and mud-covered harbinger.’

As the cart rounds a bend, the wagons are clearly visible, standing in a huddle near a stumpy group of trees, some paces back from the track. Sofia holds her breath at the sight of Agostino bending over the brazier, which is sending a column of grey smoke up into the still evening air. Cosima is holding his arm, pointing back towards the wagon, gesturing with her free hand, and Agostino is shaking his head. Cosima gives him a swift kiss and walks back to the cart.

Sofia grips Beppe’s arm, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting them all again; Beppe smiles at her in reassurance. He turns to the dog. ‘Go on, then,’ he says, holding Ippo’s head in both his hands and pointing it in the direction of the wagons. ‘Go on, boy. There’s Ago! Ago! Seek! Go on – go find him!’

Scrabbling down from the cart, Ippo does not need to be told twice. He races off, ears flat against his head, back arching at each stride like a hound’s, and Sofia feels her face stretching out into a smile as Agostino looks up in astonishment. Ippo jumps up, his joyous barks audible even at this distance. Sofia sees him turning in tight circles, chasing his tail with excitement; hears Ago shouting to Cosima, who all but falls out of the back of the wagon, she reappears with such haste; sees Vico’s head peering out from the smallest wagon, his expression unreadable from this far away.

Agostino has seen them – he is waving wildly with both arms. He begins to run, his breath puffing in clouds before his face.

‘Come on, let’s go and meet him,’ Beppe says. ‘Nicco, can you follow on in the cart – do you mind?’

‘Go on – hurry up! Get going!’ is Niccolò’s only reply.

Vaulting down from the cart, Beppe reaches back up and takes Sofia’s hand. She jumps down, and, hand in hand, they too start to run. Their footsteps jar on the hard ground and Sofia stumbles, but Beppe’s grip on her hand tightens, his arm lifts, and she rights herself without slowing.

As they near each other, Sofia can see the untidy smile on Agostino’s face; he is out of breath now, and the smile has stretched out into a gasp for air, but his arms are wide and before she can speak, he has pulled both her and Beppe into a hug.

‘Oh thank heavens – you’ve found her! Thank God! Genesius and Vitus were watching out for you after all! Oh, bless them – bless you! Cosima and I have been sending up our prayers nightly and’ – Agostino looks upwards – ‘heaven be praised, they have obviously intervened in the right places and… oh dear Lord… here you are and… who is that in the cart over there?’

‘Niccolò.’

‘Niccolò? Niccolò Zanetti? Oh
cielo
! How marvellous!’

Cosima has caught up and, gasping for breath, she too throws her arms around first Sofia, then Beppe. ‘Oh, thank goodness he found you! Why? Why did you go like that? Where have you been? We’ve been so worried! Beppe, where was she? How did you —?’

Beppe is laughing. ‘Enough! Enough! We’ll tell you everything, but we’re all badly in need of something to eat. It’s been hours since —’

‘Oh, my word, of course! Quick – I have a pot of my best soup on the brazier,’ Cosima says, taking Sofia’s hand and turning back towards the wagons.

Catching Sofia’s eye, Beppe grins and raises an eyebrow. ‘Soup. Still glad to be back?’ he says, very quietly into her ear, and she laughs.

The little cart scrunches up beside them.

‘Niccolò, bless you, how good to see you, my friend,’ Agostino says, reaching up and taking one of Niccolò’s hands in his. ‘But I thought you were at your daughter’s for the winter.’

‘I was, Ago, I was. In fact I had absolutely no intention of moving from Anna’s little place until the spring.’ He smiles at Sofia. ‘But then I was rudely uprooted from my hibernation by the arrival of your little Colombina.
No
regard for an old man’s need for rest, she had – not a
moment’s
thought given to —’

‘Niccolò!’ Sofia is suddenly anxious.

He laughs and blows her a kiss.

‘Bring that donkey down here, Nicco,’ Ago says, pointing towards where the Coraggiosi horses are tethered. ‘She’ll need hay and water.’

The brazier is blazing and the soup in its great iron pot is steaming – white wisps are tendrilling out from beneath the rim of the lid. The Coraggiosi have seated themselves around the fire on their usual odd assortment of boxes, barrels, cushions and blankets. Beppe and Sofia, in the midst of it all, are pressed close to each other and Beppe’s arm is protectively around Sofia’s shoulders. Ippo has curled himself at Beppe’s feet, his nose tucked under his paws. Niccolò is in the only complete chair – a small painted wooden thing with a woven rush seat and no arms – while Lidia, Federico and Giovanni Battista, who is still tutting his teeth and shaking his head in bewilderment at the new arrivals, are side by side on a long wooden chest. Vico has picked up his guitar and is cross-legged on a folded blanket in front of Lidia’s legs. Agostino has perched on an upturned half-barrel and Cosima is on her feet, wooden ladle in hand; removing the lid of the pot she begins spooning soup into bowls.

Just to the left of Giovanni Battista, Angelo is perched on an upturned wooden carton. He has said little since the newcomers were bustled in to sit near the brazier, and now is watching them intently, chewing the skin at the side of his thumbnail.