The Girl With the Painted Face (2 page)

The man on the barrel draws in a theatrical gasp. ‘You insult the very history of medicine!’

‘Not half so much as you insult our intelligence!’

‘You don’t
know
the half of it! I’ve told you about the
cilantro
, the
arugula,
the cudweed and the oysters – but the full recipe for this extraordinary Lifter of Amatory Spirits is known only to those of us who have declared allegiance to the Brotherhood of Apothecaries. Think of this, signori and signore – a bottle of this very elixir was bought last week by none other than Signor Francesco de’ Medici, the Grand Duke of Toscana, for thirty
scudi
—’

‘Signor de’ Medici? Are you serious? The man has seven children! Are you telling me that a man with seven children can’t get it up?’

The man in the black doublet throws back his head, smirking. He points towards the heckler with the little red bottle. ‘Hah! Of course he can! Night after night! Several times a night, most probably. No doubt about it! And why? Because he’s been buying supplies of my elixir for
years
.’

More cheers from the crowd.

Sofia goes to push her hair from her face, but winces and pulls her hand back, looking down at her fingers, one of which is now decidedly blue and swollen. Grimacing, she tries to bend it.

‘As I say, the Grand Duke of Toscana paid thirty
scudi
for his most recent bottle of the Lifter of Amatory Spirits.’

The crowd ‘
oohs
’ softly.

The little man continues, ‘But for you, my fine friends, because I know how badly
some
of you are in need of it…’ Here, he makes an extravagant, sweeping bow towards the two hecklers, and the crowd cheer again. ‘… because of this, I’ll let it go for not thirty
scudi
, not twenty, no, not even ten. Not even
one
! No – any of you fine people may purchase this… this
invigorating
draught…’ Another upward jerk of the hips on the salient word. ‘… for the mere trifle of thirty-five
giulii.
’ He pauses and then adds rather more quickly and prosaically, ‘Or should you want to lay in supplies, I can let you have three bottles for a
scudo
.’

‘I’ll take a bottle. Might liven up my boring nights a bit,’ one woman says, pulling out a few jingling coins and jiggling them in her palm. There is a murmur of laughter.

The woman next to her nods. ‘If you’re taking one, Caterina, then so will I. Been so long since Gianfranco’s been able to do anything other than piss with
his
pride and joy, I’ve nigh on forgotten what I’ve been missing.’

The man in the black doublet beams at them. ‘
Bellissime signore
, I shall be honoured to think that I shall be playing a part in restoring your nights to the wild and wonderful adventures in lovemaking they once were.’

Several women shriek. ‘Wild adventures, with Gianfranco Bello?’ one of them says, cackling. ‘Ha ha!’

‘How dare you!’ Gianfranco’s wife’s colour deepens. Elbowing past the half-dozen people who separate her from the laughing woman, she stands facing her with her hands on her hips. ‘You’re a fine one to criticize, Loretta Fiori – your Enrico is hardly anything to crow about.’

‘And how exactly would
you
know?’

Gianfranco’s wife makes no answer, but raises an eyebrow and smirks at Loretta. Then she turns away, shaking her head and saying clearly enough for most people to hear, ‘Cock that small – if he hadn’t been so noisy, I’d hardly have known he was there.’

Sofia grins. The crowd whoops, and then laughs louder still as Loretta Fiori kicks out at Gianfranco’s wife, catching her hard on the backside with the flat of her foot. Gianfranco’s wife stumbles forwards onto hands and knees.

‘That how Gianfranco likes you?’ somebody calls out. ‘On all fours?’

Gianfranco’s wife, now red in the face, clambers to her feet and stalks away from the gathering, to a farmyard cacophony of hoots and jeers.

A number of people now jostle forward, pushing past Sofia, to buy bottles – some cheerfully, some proclaiming their future plans with vulgar enthusiasm, others shamefaced and furtive – and the man in the black doublet takes the proffered coins, drops them into a leather pouch at his waist and doles out his wares, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with everyone. The crowd finally begin to disperse into the piazza, talking and laughing. Eventually, Sofia is left alone with the little man in the black doublet.

‘Are you after my elixir, by any chance, signorina?’ he says. He glances down into the box at his feet. ‘I have a couple of bottles left, and will be happy to furnish you with one, though I have to say, you don’t strike me as someone who needs to —’

Sofia shakes her head. ‘No. No, I’m not after the elixir. But, signore, would you be able to look at my hand? I’ve hurt my finger. Might you have some form of salve I could put on it?’

The man reaches out, and Sofia places her hand upon his palm. With surprising tenderness, he gently turns it this way and that, examining it with a furrow of concern between his brows. ‘How did you do this?’ he says after a moment or two.

‘Tripped and fell.’

‘Ooh, that does look sore.’ He presses very gently along the length of the finger, eyes closed, the tip of his tongue just visible between his teeth. ‘Well, it’s just possible that it’s broken, but I think you might be lucky – it may just be a nasty sprain.’

Sofia clicks her tongue against her teeth. ‘Oh no, please, signore, tell me you’re joking.’

The man shakes his head. ‘It’s at least a sprain, and I cannot guarantee that you have not broken something in there.’

‘But I’m a seamstress. I can’t work if it’s broken. Specially this one – it’s my needle finger. Please… say you’re wrong.’

Another shake of the head.

‘What should I do?’

‘Come here, and I’ll strap it for you.’ The man jerks with his head towards a small tilt-cart. ‘I’ll give you some comfrey, and I’ll strap the hurt finger to the one next to it. That’s the best I can do for you, my dear.’

‘How long will it take to mend?’

The little man sucks his teeth, considering. ‘If it’s a sprain, then a week or two at the most. If it’s broken, then three, maybe four weeks till you can take the strapping off.’ Turning away from her, he climbs up into his cart and begins rummaging in a painted box.

‘Four weeks!’ Sofia puffs out a breath, trying not to panic. ‘She won’t wait that long.’

The man in the black doublet looks up from the painted box, holding a strip of linen, a tuft of wool and a tiny pottery jar. ‘Who won’t wait for what?’

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

The man pats the upturned barrel, inviting Sofia to sit upon it. She complies. He gives her the little jar, which she opens and sniffs. Then, stoppering it tightly once more, she tucks it down inside the top edge of her bodice. Taking her hand in his, the man places the tuft of wool carefully between Sofia’s middle and fourth fingers. Then he winds the strip of linen around them, binding them snugly together. Tearing the last few inches of the strip into two he ties a neat knot, fastening it securely near Sofia’s knuckles. ‘There,’ he says. ‘Better?’

Sofia nods. ‘Thank you, signore,’ she says.

‘How did you come to fall so heavily?’

Sofia looks at her companion. There is something innately trustworthy in his eyes, she thinks, despite the nonsense she knew he was talking moments ago. His expression is kind. ‘I was running,’ she says. ‘They’re trying to make out I’m a thief.’

‘Who are?’

‘This man and his servant.’

‘And are you?’ The man smiles. ‘A thief?’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘And what do they say?’

She hesitates. ‘Well, I was asked to deliver an undershirt to this man in the Via Magdalena – a shirt I’d mended for him.’

The little man tips his head to one side, listening.

‘His servant asked me to wait in an upstairs
sala
. He said his master wanted to inspect the repair – make sure it was done to his satisfaction.’

Shuddering at the thought of what had happened then, Sofia explains what followed. She recounts the shameful suggestions the man had made to her… and explains how she responded.

‘And then I fled, while he shouted to a servant that I had stolen his purse – which of course I hadn’t – and now I might not be able to sew for weeks…’ Sofia lifts her bandaged hand. ‘… and Signora Romano won’t pay me a single
baioccho
if I can’t work.’ She draws in a long breath. ‘She pays me little enough as it is.’

The man in the black doublet shakes his head. ‘You poor, poor girl. What a tale. You have indeed been unfortunate, signorina.’

‘Yes. But lucky to meet you. I’m very grateful to you, signore, for helping with my hand.’

‘Ah well – as one who has… has been run out of town by the authorities myself…’ The man paused. ‘… I am never averse to helping out a fellow creature found at the mercy of the rich and powerful.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Sofia says.

‘Bless you, child, not at all, not at all. Now listen, I have some bread, and ale. Far too much of it for myself alone – in fact, I would welcome some company in the eating and drinking of it.’

Sofia smiles at him. ‘Then thank you. I should be honoured. May I ask your name, signore?’

The little man stands back and bows low, sweeping the tall black hat from his head with a flamboyant flourish. ‘Niccolò Zanetti. One-time apothecary and now purveyor of the highest quality medicaments and curatives.’ He pauses, then adds in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘And of a fair number of medicaments of a somewhat lower quality, too, I’m afraid.’

Sofia jumps down from her barrel and curtsies. ‘Sofia Genotti. Seamstress-in-training.’

‘Well, well, Sofia Genotti, seamstress-in-training, let’s find somewhere more comfortable – like the back step of my cart – to take some of that ale and bread and rest awhile.’

They sit pressed together side by side in companionable silence on the wooden step of the tiny covered cart, eating hunks of torn bread and watching people coming and going across the piazza. As Sofia brushes crumbs from her mouth, Niccolò Zanetti pours ale into a pretty silver cup and passes it across. The ale is sweet and fresh; Sofia wraps both hands around the cup and rests it on bent knees, her feet drawn up under her on the tilt-cart step. ‘My mother was a healer,’ she says. ‘She never called herself an apothecary, but she knew everything about plants and herbs and…’ She tails off, wishing she had not mentioned her mother. The memories are still too painful – even after all these years.

‘Was?’

Sofia nods. ‘Yes. She’s… she’s dead.’ She cannot be more specific. Not to a stranger.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, my dear.’

‘It was several years ago, when I was a little girl.’ Please, Sofia thinks now. Please don’t ask me how she died.

But Signor Zanetti does not ask. He looks at her for several seconds, then pats her on the back of her hand and says, ‘In my experience, women often make by far the best healers.’

‘How long do you plan to stay in Modena, signore?’ she says, deliberately changing the subject.

‘Me? Oh, I shall be on the road again this evening. Me and Violetta here.’ He jerks his head towards a large and ugly donkey picking at a pile of hay some feet away.

Sofia is surprised to feel a pang of loss at the thought of Signor Zanetti’s departure. ‘It must be a difficult way of life,’ she says, ‘never knowing where you are going to sleep, not having a proper home.’ Not that I really have one myself, she adds silently.

Several long seconds pass. Niccolò Zanetti seems lost in thought. ‘There’s a little house up in the mountains about twenty miles from here,’ he says softly, staring with unfocused eyes at something Sofia cannot see. ‘A pretty little place called Faenza. It overlooks an ancient landscape, thick with old oaks and sweet chestnuts, with beech trees and conifers. It’s a pretty place, and my daughter and her husband have lived there for… oh, nearly ten years. When the weather is too bad for travelling and living out of the cart, I like to go and stay with her – and I think she likes to see me, too.’ He smiles at Sofia. ‘You put me in mind of my daughter.’

Sofia opens her mouth to reply, when a voice rings out above the buzzing hum of the remnants of the crowd.

‘
Why?
You want to know why I’ve been traipsing halfway across Modena and back?
Why?
Because that thieving little whore abused me and my hospitality; she stole my property and I’m determined to have her for it!’

‘
Merda!
Oh God, signore, that’s him!’ Sofia is on her feet, her heart racing again, her skin instantly clammy with chill sweat. ‘That’s the man who has been hounding me across the city…’

She is hand in hand with her mamma as they approach the centre of the little town of Comacchio, and Sofia is skipping happily, when a shout stops them both in their tracks. Three men are standing shoulder to shoulder across the pathway some few yards ahead.
 

One of them points at them.
 

‘That’s her!’
 

Mamma drops the bag she is carrying and turns to run, dragging Sofia with her, but Sofia is too small, she cannot keep up and she stumbles. Mamma turns to face the three men, pushing Sofia to stand behind her. Holding her there, she backs with her towards a wall, shaking her head, and the panicked pleas that begin to tumble out of her mouth as the men approach make no sense to Sofia.
 

Niccolò Zanetti takes her arm. ‘Get in the cart,’ he says, quietly.

Clambering up and over the tailgate of the cart, she crouches under the curve of the canvas cover as Zanetti flips a string and unrolls the back flap. Edging past a couple of boxes, she squats down in a cramped space behind a rack of stoneware jars, aware that she is now well and truly trapped: there is no other way out. She swallows, feeling light-headed.

‘And you!’ comes the booming voice, now clearly just inches from where she was sitting: the man’s shadow, dark and distorted, slides up and over the other side of the creased canvas. ‘What about you, signore? Have
you
seen a girl – about sixteen? Yellow dress. About this high.’ The shadow-arm lifts as the heavy man indicates her height. ‘Dark hair.
Tette
like a couple of peaches. Probably breathless with running.’