The Girl With the Painted Face (24 page)

The weeping intensifies.

‘Find a way to get rid of it, Maddalena, or…’ Sebastiano hesitates, then he says, ‘… or I might just have to find a way to get rid of you.’

He turns from her and strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His boots are thunderous on the wooden staircase. Running down from the
sala
, he grabs a leather doublet from a chair by the door, pushing his arms down into the sleeves and roughly fastening it as he leaves the house. His thoughts race, dizzying him as he walks. Dear God, on top of everything else, this new discovery is terrible. That final threat was carelessly uttered, perhaps, but from the drop-jawed expression of naked terror that flashed across Maddalena’s face as he spoke, it is clear that she believes that he has every intention of carrying it out.

So perhaps it would be a solution. If all else fails.
Cazzo!
– his standing in the city is precarious enough as it is, without another new scandal to push him nearer the edge. But he has more pressing problems before then. He must find his cousin. He needs the money from Marco if he is to pay – oh God, how many creditors are there now? Seven? Eight? To say nothing of the mounting unpaid costs at Franceschina? If he cannot widen the net of buyers for his laudanum – buyers whom he knows will almost immediately become entirely dependent upon him to continue replenishing the stocks they cannot get from anyone else (thank God for his Swiss contact) – then his future at Franceschina will be precarious indeed.
Merda!
, the shame of having to sell the place and move away would be catastrophic – he cannot imagine it!

If he is not careful, word will spread, some other broker will step into his place and he will lose his edge of exclusivity.

The commedia show he has commissioned will be happening any day now – and if he is honest with himself, he is increasingly desperate for the event to be a success. Even if it is only in truth one more glittering layer of deceit, lying like a golden filigree over the cesspool of his financial disasters, it will provide ‘evidence’ to his neighbours – for another few months at least – that his coffers are better-stocked than they really are. And a good impression is all it should take to keep the pretence alive for a while.

That angel-faced addict, Bagnacavallo, will be one of the visiting actors, of course. One of Sebastiano’s few regulars – though sadly not, so he has discovered, one whose money he can rely on. He, Sebastiano, has three or four bottles Angelo can have when he and the troupe come to Franceschina, if Angelo has the money. He won’t give anything away on trust any more – no, he won’t make that mistake again! His previous leniency, based largely on now all-but-faded hopes that the handsome and noble-blooded Angelo would provide him with a stream of new and well-heeled customers, now seems sadly misguided, and Sebastiano realizes that he simply cannot afford to subsidize such an unreliable payer.

‘I’ll have the money up front, or the exquisite Signor da Bagnacavallo can go away empty-handed, however desperate he says he is and however prestigious his bloody forebears.’

But now he must find Marco – another bloody unreliable payer – and one who owes him one hundred
scudi
. A hundred! He cannot remember when his cousin last paid him a single
baioccho
. Marco will most likely be in his favourite tavern.

He’ll try there first.

18

Sofia glances around the upstairs room. It is bigger than she was expecting – much bigger than any other room the troupe has shared since she has been with them – but the two low beds still take up much of the floor space. One of the beds is enormously wide, the other a little smaller. The low ceiling is heavily raftered; it must once have been painted, Sofia thinks, though what were probably bright colours have long since faded. The shutters on the single window have been closed against the chill of the October night air. Rushes cover the otherwise bare floorboards. A wooden chest, its once vividly-coloured panelling now chipped and indecipherable, sits along the foot end of the smaller bed.

Sofia glances around at the Coraggiosi readying themselves for the night by the light of several candle stubs. They have far more room here than they are used to. With the self-contained ease of long-accustomed travellers, Agostino and Cosima have already tucked themselves under a couple of blankets on one side of the smaller bed, leaving space for one other person, and are still and quiet. Their heads lie close to each other on the pillows. Vico is squatting on his heels beside the larger of the two beds, unfastening Lidia’s laces for her; he has one eye on Beppe, who has sat down on the opposite side of the mattress. Vico might well be watching Beppe, but Beppe has eyes for no one but Sofia and his eyes are huge and dark in the candlelight.

Sofia has shared tavern rooms and the wagons – and occasional borrowed bedchambers and
salas
– with these same people on numerous occasions now, and their cheerful banter and comfortable camaraderie has always been a comfort to her. She has up until this moment loved the claustrophobic bustle of it; has felt included, wanted, liked – even loved – by them all, and their warmth and unselfconscious friendship has sustained her over the weeks she has lived among them. But now, tonight, they are suddenly nothing more than intruders – intruders upon hers and Beppe’s new-found need for privacy – and she wants to grab Beppe’s hand and run from the room. To get away from them. But she cannot: tonight her friends are effectively paralysing her. She knows she could no more let them see her leave this room with Beppe to go to some private place than she could dance naked in the piazza, and, somewhat to her surprise, an unfamiliar feeling of resentment begins to settle itself like a lump of uncooked dough high in her chest.

She walks around the end of the larger bed and seats herself next to Beppe. He puts a hand over hers and shifts in closer so that his hip is pressing up against hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says in an almost silent whisper. ‘Vico took me by surprise. We’ll find a place to be alone tomorrow. I promise.’

Sofia nods, heeling off her shoes.

‘Turn around and I’ll undo your laces for you,’ Beppe says. He fiddles with the wispy curls on the nape of her neck for a moment, then his fingers move down the ridge of her spine to the fastenings of her dress; she draws in a soft breath, closing her eyes as she fights not to turn around. Agostino and Cosima might be well on their way to being asleep, but Vico and Lidia are still awake and the candles are still lighting the room; she does not want either of them to see her kiss Beppe – any mockery just now would be too dreadful – so she sits still, aware of a faint trembling in her arms and legs, and listens instead to the flip of the laces slipping through their eyelets as Beppe unfastens her dress. Sliding out of her sleeves, she eases the bodice off, folding it in two and laying it on the floor next to the bed. The knot at her waist takes a moment to unpick; then she pushes her skirts off, and these too she folds roughly and places on top of the bodice. Clad now only in her much-creased chemise, she takes the far edge of the two blankets Beppe is holding out towards her; he hutches across to put himself next to Vico, leaving space for her. Her heart thudding, Sofia swings her legs around and lies down beside him.

This is the first time she has lain next to him – the first time she has been in such close proximity to him with so little clothing on. Her limbs continue to tremble.

Over on the far side of the bed, Lidia reaches across and pinches out two of the candle flames. One last stub, on the chest at the foot of Agostino and Cosima’s bed, still flickers fitfully.

Beppe spreads out their two blankets; turning his back on Vico and shifting as far from his friend as he can, he pulls Sofia in close to him. Draping an arm over her, he tucks his legs up behind hers. His breath is warm on her neck. She struggles with herself for a moment, but despite her awareness of the others, she finds she cannot help but turn, and is just sliding around under the blankets to face him when the door to the chamber opens.

The light from the last of the lit candles wobbles in the draught.

Sofia holds her breath.

A familiar voice, though slurred now and strangely toneless, says, ‘Oh,
merda
! I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you’d all gone to bed.’

‘God, that’s all we need,’ Beppe mutters between gritted teeth.

‘Everyone
does
look comfortable,’ Angelo says. ‘Other room’s full, though – Federico and Giovanni Battista are crammed in with a couple of other travellers. Any space in here?’

Agostino grunts and shifts across, nearer to Cosima, making room.

Muttering to himself, Angelo edges between the two beds, stumbling past where Sofia is pressing up against Beppe, to sit heavily on the unoccupied edge of the second mattress, next to Agostino.

‘Any spare blankets?’ he says. Nobody answers, but somebody – Sofia thinks it must have been Lidia – throws a blanket across the room. It lands with a muffled flop. Angelo murmurs thanks and, untidily heeling off his boots and shrugging his arms out of his doublet sleeves, he rolls himself in the blanket without further comment. The chamber falls silent.

Only the sounds of breathing can be heard.

Even the quietest whisper would be clearly audible now.

Sofia does not dare say anything to Beppe; she curls herself against him and he wraps his arms – and the blankets – tightly around her.

She can feel his pulse beating against her cheek and knows she will not sleep.

Beppe dares not do more than hold Sofia against him. Vico is still awake and listening – Beppe can tell by the sound of his friend’s breathing – and, worse than this, Angelo’s presence is now filling the room like a noxious gas. The pent-up desire for Sofia he has been feeling all evening is turning now into a painful restlessness: one of his legs is twitching, and he has started winding strands of Sofia’s hair around his finger – round and round, tightening it until he can feel a throbbing in his fingertip – then unwinding and beginning again.

She has turned towards him and has curled against him, her knees bent up over his legs, her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her unruly hair is tickling the side of his face. The hand which is resting on his chest is stroking his skin, softly, gently: she is doing no more than contracting and spreading her fingers but each little movement is making his need for her worse. He is longing to kiss her but holds back; once he starts, he knows it will be impossible to stop.

19

Sofia and Beppe have passed the hours since they rose this morning in a haze of frustrated longing. The Coraggiosi have been in a determinedly cheerful mood – this is a hard-earned rest, after all, and Agostino has, since everyone came downstairs this morning, been exhorting his troupe to make the most of the break from routine. He has been resolute in his intention to involve everyone in his ideas for relaxation, and, despite their best efforts, Sofia and Beppe have been unable to extricate themselves for more than a few minutes at a time since first light.

Back in the crowded tavern room for the second evening of the troupe’s little holiday, Sofia thinks through the day’s events. She awoke many hours ago wrapped in Beppe’s arms as the morning light began to filter through the ill-fitting shutters, stiff and uncomfortable from having been some time unmoving, and momentarily confused by the unfamiliar sensation of being held. Opening her eyes, she saw – too close to focus clearly – the side of Beppe’s still-sleeping face next to hers, and, laying a hand on his cheek, kissed his mouth very gently.

He tightened his hold on her.

Then Vico coughed.

Beppe opened his eyes. Smiled at Sofia.

Vico sat up, yawned and stretched. ‘Good morning, Coraggiosi,’ he said cheerfully, kissing Lidia and ruffling Beppe’s hair. ‘No work today. What a treat. What shall we do?’

‘Why don’t you shut up and let other people sleep?’ came Lidia’s voice from the far side of the bed, thick with morning drowsiness.

‘Because, my little cherub, on a day with no work, it seems a crime to waste it lying here doing nothing.’