The Girl With the Painted Face (21 page)

Lidia puts a finger up to Sofia’s mouth to silence her. ‘Stop it! You make a sweet, clever Colombina, and me? Well, I have thoroughly enjoyed spending the afternoon being a rude and lascivious old trout.’

Sofia laughs.

‘Come on, hurry up, we need to get the brazier going and get some ale in.’ Vico clicks his fingers and Lidia, smiling widely at Sofia again, hurries to the ladder to join him.

Sofia turns towards the gap in the backdrop.

And then Beppe is there, the last to exit the stage.

He pushes his mask up and off, knocking his black hat to the floor. His hair is damp and tangled, and he looks tired, but his eyes are shining. ‘You were wonderful,’ he says, putting his arms around her. ‘Just wonderful.’

And at last their mouths meet.

Beppe puts one hand behind her head and one in the small of her back; she grips handfuls of the diamond-patterned jacket and presses in as close to him as she can without knocking them both off the edge of the stage.

‘Oy!’ someone calls. ‘When you two come up for air, come and join us, will you?’

Taking his hand from Sofia’s head, Beppe waggles his fingers in acknowledgement, but does not break off from the kiss, and by the time he and Sofia finally draw back from each other, the rest of the troupe have gone back to the wagons, the audience has all but dispersed and the piazza is empty.

Only one small boy can be seen, standing in the space behind the stage and staring up at the two of them. When Beppe catches his eye and grins at him, he pulls a face and runs away.

‘Listen, lovely girl,’ Beppe says now, running his thumb along her cheekbone. ‘Tonight is going to be crowded. We’re performing again tomorrow, so we won’t be dismantling today – we’ll be spending the night in the wagons so we can keep an eye on the staging…’

Sofia looks at him quizzically.

‘… and… well… I don’t want the first time we lie together to be in the wagons.’

Lie together? Sofia’s heart skips a beat. She stares at him.

‘You might have noticed that I always put myself on the far side of any room we’ve shared, or that I make sure I’m in another wagon to the one you’re in…’

Sofia says nothing but nods, once. This has been a source of anxiety to her for many days.

‘Don’t think for a moment it’s been because I’ve wanted to.’

She can feel her pulse racing.

Beppe holds her face in his hands. ‘It’s been because I’ve known I wouldn’t be able to bear being that close to you if I had to… had to keep my hands off you.’

Now imagining Beppe’s hands
on
her, Sofia swallows. The melting feeling in her belly intensifies.

‘We’re off to Montalbano after tomorrow’s performance, aren’t we? For our little holiday. We’ll just have to get through tonight, lovely girl, and then we can find ourselves a quiet place to be alone there.’

Sofia stares up at him.

Behind the wagons, the celebrations are already ebullient. The audience, though not enormous, was generous and the takings were pleasing, so there has been a little more than usual to spend on the ale and food which always follow a show. A big wooden platter of meat and bread, a large round cheese, a bowl of apricots and several jugs of ale have been brought over from the tavern on the far side of the piazza, and the members of the Coraggiosi – clustered now on benches around a makeshift table – are already loud in their appreciation of all of it.

A couple of dozen stubs of candles have been stuck in pots and jars, or directly onto the wood of the table, and the glow from them underlights the faces of every one of the troupe. Wisps of smoke spiral up into the dusk.

Sofia and Beppe slide in next to Lidia on one side of the table, and the rest of the troupe applaud their arrival enthusiastically. As Beppe puts an arm around Sofia, she leans her head against his shoulder, smiling shyly at the exuberant welcome, feeling as happy as she can remember being. Ippo the dog, who has slid out from the yellow wagon, has put himself under the table at their feet. His head is hot and heavy on her lap. She absentmindedly scratches his ears and hears him groan softly – a little husky exhalation of pleasure.

‘I say it again, and I will say it
con gusto
to whoever cares to listen, for however long I can hold their attention: you were magnificent, Sofia! Entirely magnificent!’ Agostino has already consumed a fair amount of ale, even in the few short moments that Sofia and Beppe were otherwise occupied on the back of the stage, and he is now gesticulating widely to emphasize his words. On each
magnificent
he thumps the table with a fist and ale slops from several cups onto the scrubbed wood.

The others clap and Lidia leans across and gives Sofia a quick kiss on the cheek. Beppe’s arm tightens around her.

‘Was it as terrifying as you had expected?’ Cosima says, and her face is full of affectionate pride.

Sofia bites her lip, smiling. She nods and everyone laughs.

‘But you rose to the occasion, like a consummate professional, and conquered your fears!’ Agostino proclaims. ‘I’d like to propose a toast, firstly to Sofia – the newest and certainly the bravest member of the Coraggiosi – in fact a true
coraggiosa
herself! And then to our dear and absent friend, Niccolò Zanetti, for bringing this little girl to us in the first place.’ He raises his cup, and everyone follows suit.

‘How about a song?’ Vico suggests.

There is a murmur of agreement.

Scrambling out from his place at the table, Vico disappears, returning a moment later with his guitar. He spends a few seconds fiddling with the tuning pegs and picking at the strings, then pats the rounded end of the instrument and looks enquiringly around the gathering. ‘Well? Any suggestions?’

‘How about “I Didn’t Dare Say It”?’ Federico suggests. ‘Or that one about banking?’

‘Banking?’ Beppe asks, frowning.

‘“
Hor Vendut’ho la Speranza”, I think it’s called,’ Federico says. ‘You know – where the man says he’s invested heavily in the hope of being loved, but his investment has gone down the drain.’

Beppe shrugs. ‘Don’t know that one.’ 

‘Oh no, that sounds
far
too miserable for such a
joyous
occasion,’ Agostino says. ‘Vico, let’s have “I Didn’t Dare Say It” and we can all enjoy some good honest cuckoldry.’ 

Everyone laughs. 

Vico picks at the strings of his guitar and, in his clear, carrying tenor voice, starts to sing. Lidia soon joins him. The song is tuneful, easy to pick up and delightfully rude, and before long the rest of the troupe – and half a dozen passers-by who have heard the celebration and come to share in it – are joining in the refrain. 

‘Where are you all staying tonight?’ somebody booms as the song draws to a close and a sustained bout of applause breaks out. Sofia turns and sees a big, cheerful man with his arm around a woman not much smaller than he is. 

‘Here in the wagons, signore,’ Agostino says, waving his cup of ale in the vague direction of the cluster of carts behind him. 

‘But I have a room you can use! Can’t have such extraordinary artists camping out in their carts! Not in our town – it would be a disgrace!’ 

‘We do it all the time, signore,’ Cosima says, smiling her wide, slow smile and looking, Sofia thinks now, more beautiful than ever in the low and flickering candlelight. ‘We think nothing of it. And besides, we need to be here to keep an eye on our belongings.’ 

‘All of you? Surely not.’ 

Agostino considers. ‘No, now you mention it, perhaps not all. Perhaps some of us
could
take you up on your kind offer. In fact,’ he says, his frown breaking into a wide smile, ‘I think it’s fair to say that you are generosity personified!’ 

‘I can fit – oh, say, four of you comfortably in my downstairs chamber.’ 

Agostino looks around the troupe. ‘Sofia, you deserve a warm night. And you, Cosima,
cara
, and Lidia. Giovanni Battista, as our elder statesman, go too, and try to keep the girls under control.’ 

Giovanni Battista gets to his feet and bows solemnly to Agostino, his face set in an expression of mock determination. ‘I shall, signore,’ he says in a ringing voice, ‘do my very best – or shall perish in the attempt!’ 

A spatter of laughter. 

Sofia turns to Beppe, having no wish to be parted from him. But he squeezes her hand and says quietly into her ear, ‘Go and get a good night’s sleep, lovely girl. Make the most of it. We’ll
…
find a quiet corner to be alone tomorrow.’ 

16

The little hill town of Montalbano

‘Just the two rooms I have free this evening, my friends,’ the ale-man says, jerking his head towards the stairs. ‘And you’re welcome to both of them. Don’t worry, you’ll all fit in – all my beds are wide – well known for their generous width in and around Montalbano, I think you’ll find. There’s two beds in the bigger of the rooms. And I have blankets a-plenty, so you certainly won’t be cold. It’s indeed a pleasure to see you all again, signori and signore, if I may say so. It must be several years since…’

‘It’s a pleasure to be here. We’re all most grateful, signore – and of course particularly delighted to hear about the width of the beds – which, I have to tell you, are legendary across Emilia-Romagna,’ Agostino says, inclining his head in decorous thanks. Vico doubles over, coughing to hide the laughter he cannot prevent, and Lidia kicks him in the leg. Sofia, though, is not laughing. She has caught Beppe’s eye and, at his quick smile, she is thinking of the ‘quiet corner’ he said he would try to find for the two of them and of what they might do there. Not one word of Agostino’s conversation with the ale-man has she taken in.

The little tavern is crowded and noisy, and a pleasing savoury smell – some sort of stew, Sofia presumes now – hangs in the air above the tangle of conversations, luckily stronger than the acrid odour from the various animals in the room. Several chickens are pecking hopefully at fallen food on the rush-strewn floor, a couple of cats have perched on top of a crumbling
credenza
, their paws neatly tucked in under their chests, and, over by the wide hearthstone, a large and very hairy black pig lies flat, its eyes closed, the only sign of life the rise and fall of its belly and the occasional twitch of a sharp-toed trotter.

Many heads turn and watch as the Coraggiosi cross the room together and seat themselves at one end of a long table near the fire. Beppe’s dog sniffs briefly at the pig, but backs away hurriedly when it raises its huge head from the floor and opens a baleful little eye to glare at the intruder.

The troupe is loud in its enjoyment of the food, the ale, the warmth, the company, and, within minutes, the attention of everyone in the room has focused itself upon the Coraggiosi’s table, and other conversations have died to a mutter. Sofia wonders what these hill-dwellers must think of their exuberant, brightly coloured, voluble visitors. She can imagine what she would have thought of them herself, had she been sitting here in this room, watching them – can imagine the curious envy that would have filled her, looking at such high-spirited camaraderie. She smiles like a cream-fed cat to think that she is now a part of it, that she belongs to them, that she is now an actor, that she has been soundly kissed by the anarchic and irresistible Arlecchino – and that he, Beppe, has promised her that the two of them will spend some time alone together this very night. Squashed in between Beppe and Giovanni Battista at the table, Sofia looks sideways at him as he throws back his head and laughs at a joke of Vico’s; a hot little thread wriggles down into her belly at the thought of what the night might hold.

Beppe catches her eye. Smiling, he grips her thigh under the table and the hot thread tugs. She lays a hand over his, her fingers falling into the gaps between his and his grip tightens for a second.

‘Giovanni Battista, this was a
tremendous
suggestion of yours. I, for one, cannot think of a more congenial place to spend our well-earned days of rest,’ Agostino says, his booming voice interrupting Sofia and Beppe’s moment of intimacy. Giovanni Battista smiles and nods as he takes a long draught of ale.

Vico leans across the table and says, ‘Beppe, how do you fancy doing a bit of nonsense to earn a few extra
baiocchi
?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know… we could do the juggling
lazzo
from
The Other Doctor –
you know, where you juggle and I keep pinching one or other of the bits and pieces you’re juggling with.’

Beppe’s gaze shifts from Vico to Sofia. His raised eyebrow is eloquent:
Are you happy if I do?
She nods and smiles. Beppe says to Vico, ‘Do you have anything to juggle with? The bag of balls is out in the wagon and I can’t be bothered to —’

‘Bound to be something. Wait a moment.’ Glancing around the room and jumping up from his seat, Vico reaches up to the shelf above the fire and takes down an age-shining knot of wood the size of a child’s fist and a tin cup. Beppe picks a couple of fat plums from a bowl and lifts a bread roll from a nearby dish. ‘Shall we announce it, or just start?’ he says.