The Girl With the Painted Face (45 page)

A look of frustration flickers across Signora Andreini’s face. ‘Come back here after the show, signorina. We will talk then.’

Beppe stares up at the city walls, glad now that he made the decision to travel this way. The mare is tired – she is beginning to drag her feet – and, sliding off her back, he gathers the reins up in one hand. Putting the other up under her muzzle, he fiddles the soft skin of the horse’s whiskery lower lip with the tips of his fingers and, pulling her head in against his shoulder, he stands with her for a moment. The mare’s hot breath clouds up in front of him. ‘Good girl,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ve done well, really well – we’ll rest now.’ He pauses, staring up at the sky. ‘I hope to God I chose the right route.’

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Niccolò says, turning to Sofia as the players take their bows, to cheers and whoops and a storm of wild applause from the enormous crowd. ‘You can understand how they’ve earned their reputation.’

Sofia nods. She is still riveted by the Gelosi’s Arlecchino. She knows, of course, that it is not Beppe, but how can she look at that costume, see someone in that mask, playing that role, and not think of him? To her, this man is nowhere near as accomplished a tumbler as Beppe, but his timing is perfect, she thinks now; he is clever, and funny, and his performance was wonderful. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Niccolò, I need to get back to Signora Andreini’s wagon, now the show is over. She seemed willing to listen to me, at least. It’s a start, isn’t it?’

Niccolò hugs her. ‘It is indeed, child, it is indeed. Get along with you. I’ll go back to the tavern and wait there with Violetta and Ippo.’

Sofia nods and, without another word, turns from him.

She eases through the crowd of people now leaving the piazza; the place is loud and joyous with that unmistakable buzz that comes only from a satisfied audience.

As she approaches the wagons, Signora Andreini beckons her over, and Sofia quickly finds herself once more up inside the largest of them, seated on the painted stool again. Signora Andreini is now accompanied not by the pregnant Prudenza, but by a man Sofia does not fully recognize, though she knows who he is by what he is wearing. Dressed still in the richly embroidered doublet and breeches he was wearing just now on the stage, he is perched on the end of one of the truckle beds, his shoulders slightly hunched in the cramped space.

‘Signorina,’ he says. ‘I am Francesco Andreini. My wife tells me you wish to talk to us. About something… of import.’ He inclines his head, and gestures around the wagon with a flourish. ‘Well. Our show is at an end. The floor is now yours – tell all!’

Sofia swallows uncomfortably. She clears her throat. Looking from Francesco Andreini to his wife and back, she again begins to explain.

Both Francesco and Isabella Andreini listen intently; Isabella’s mouth opens as Sofia describes Signor da Correggio’s assault upon her in the study, and Francesco shakes his head, frowning and tutting his tongue against his teeth.

‘We all ran from the place,’ Sofia says, ‘and travelled back here to Bologna, fearing that Beppe would be arrested. Da Correggio was alive when we left. Quite definitely alive. He was groaning and swearing, and struggling to get up.’

Both the Andreinis are gazing fixedly at her.

Sofia tells them of being arrested, of Beppe’s being so brutally knocked down by the black-jacketed thugs who had dragged her away from the troupe; she describes the filthy cell and her sickening fear, then her relief at being released – a relief quickly drowned by a smothering guilt as the troupe is banished from their beloved Emilia-Romagna, and left to face an uncertain, unfamiliar future elsewhere in Italy. ‘Everything seemed to change when we left the territories,’ she said. ‘All the life went out of the troupe – all the sparkle. But if,’ she says, ‘if I could discover who really did it, perhaps they might be persuaded to lift the banishment order, and…’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ Francesco does not sound incredulous – he wants to know. ‘Do you know?’

Sofia pulls in a breath. ‘I had an idea. I wanted to find a troupe – I wasn’t expecting for a moment that it would be you, the Gelosi, but I hoped a troupe might be here in the city.’ She hesitates. ‘Might it be possible, do you think, to put what happened into a performance – to act it out – and then for one of the characters to complain about the injustice of it all? Directly to the audience? Might an audience somehow be… oh, I don’t know…
nudged
into remembering… or
admitting
what they know but perhaps don’t want to accept?’

Isabella looks at Francesco and mutters something Sofia cannot hear. He nods and answers in an equally inaudible undertone. They converse quietly for several seconds. Then Isabella turns back to Sofia. ‘You played Colombina?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll have to ask Flaminio,’ Isabella says to Francesco, ‘but I’m sure Prudenza wouldn’t mind. In the state she’s in at the moment, she’ll be grateful.’

Sofia does not understand.

Seeing her confusion, Isabella says, ‘Look, I don’t know whether or not your idea has any chance of success, but I’m happy to try for you. We’re all road-dwellers, aren’t we? All of us. Like a massive, disparate family. I think you’ve been shabbily treated and, well, perhaps… perhaps Genesius and Vitus have had a hand in bringing you to us, and I’m sure they would be…
displeased
if we didn’t act upon their introduction.’ She takes Sofia’s hands in hers.

Feeling the prickling threat of tears, Sofia says, ‘You’re very kind.’

Isabella Andreini squeezes her fingers. ‘No, not kind at all, just angry on your behalf.’ She glances over at Francesco, who nods. ‘Here’s how we’ll do it. We’ll put you in as Colombina for a day. Prudenza is beginning to get too heavy to perform now – she’ll be glad of the rest, to be honest. We can work together to write it into tomorrow’s show, and after your Colombina has poured it all out to Arlecchino, I’ll make him address the audience. Simone – he plays Arlecchino – is so good at that, it’ll probably be best coming from him.’

‘Tomorrow’s show? But that’s so soon.’ Sofia shakes her head in consternation. ‘How can you —? Will you be able to —?’

Francesco Andreini throws back his head and laughs. ‘So soon? Ha! We have about twenty-two hours. This is luxury, child –
hours
more than we often allow ourselves for the preparation of new material.’

‘But —’

Isabella Andreini raises a hand. ‘I think you – and the rest of the troupe – have been treated shabbily by the authorities – and by the aristocracy. We want to help.’ She stands and begins to gesticulate theatrically as she adds in a suddenly more carrying voice, ‘Because, after all, what does our profession stand for, if not to demand a voice for the little man, if not to puncture the tough and ugly bubble of self-regard so often presented so unthinkingly by the wealthy and the powerful?’

Sofia stares at her.

‘We’ll do it. Why not? We’ll try to find your murderer for you.’ She stops and stares at her husband for a few seconds. Then, her eyes glittering, she turns back to Sofia. ‘And then, here’s a thought: stay with us for a while. After we move on from Bologna, come too. It’ll be an adventure – we’ll be going to France in the New Year. We’ve been asked to visit the French court. If what they are saying about you is true, you might be able to help us out. Prudenza won’t be able to work much longer – it will be weeks and weeks before she is fit to be back on stage. Come and play Colombina with us – at least while Prudenza approaches her confinement. If you don’t feel you can return to the Coraggiosi, then you are going to need work – and right now, we need a Colombina. Such a coincidence shouldn’t be ignored, should it?’

Sofia stares, unable to think of an answer, but Isabella Andreini smiles. ‘Francesco,’ she says, ‘go and find Simone, will you? We’ll need to work together.’

Arriving some moments after the show had begun, Beppe found the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana so tightly packed with eager and enthusiastic Bolognese, all struggling to see what was transpiring on the stage, that he quickly realized any hope of getting any nearer the front was out of the question. Scrambling up onto the pediment of a large and crumbling pillar, he watched – amused, despite his grinding anxiety – as the Gelosi’s Arlecchino flipped and tumbled as he had so often done himself. But Arlecchino then took his Colombina in his arms, and, Beppe, his smile vanishing, turned away and stared up at the roofscape of the piazza, swallowing down a drench of longing so fierce it made him feel physically sick.

The show is over now though, and the crowd is dispersing. Beppe cannot help himself: as the piazza empties, he wanders up to the edge of the staging and stares critically at the intricately painted hangings draped across the back of the trestles. They’re good, he admits now, running his fingers along the edge of the trestle boards and examining the street scenes. The perspective works perfectly – they’re lovely.

Two young boys appear – each about eleven or twelve years old – looking self-consciously important. Standing back a pace or two, Beppe watches as they begin to collect props and carry them off the stage, away to where four large and beautifully painted wagons stand side by side a little way to the left.

‘Yep, Simone’s in with them now,’ one of them says. ‘So Francesco said. And
God
knows what changes they’re planning. It’ll be
us
that’ll have to remember a thousand new things by tomorrow, of course. Same as usual.’

‘But who
is
she?’ The other boy is frowning. ‘This girl. Why are they making changes? When did all this happen?’

‘
When?
’ The first boy puffs a laugh. ‘Not “when
did
it happen?” It’s happening
now
, Bernardo, it’s happening
now
. I don’t know – some girl turns up, spouts some story or other, and all hell breaks loose.’

‘Who? That girl who came through just now? She was pretty,’ Bernardo says. ‘She smiled at me.’

The first boy laughs. ‘Ha ha! You think she’d be interested in you? It’s not only Arlecchino who’s gone to the bloody moon – you have and all.’

A few paces away, unnoticed, Beppe is staring at them, hardly breathing.

‘What story, anyway?’ Bernardo says. ‘What’s she saying?’

‘Not sure of all of it. Francesco didn’t say much… which makes a change. Just that she’s an actress, anyway, according to him. Er…’ He pauses, frowning as he recollects Francesco’s proffered snippets of news. ‘Er… he said that… she didn’t do a murder they said she’d done – well, thank God for that, I suppose, seeing as she’s over there in the wagon with the Andreinis – but someone else thought she had, and… what was it? Oh yes. Some man she was in love with said he didn’t want her any more, so she’s come here instead. Or something like that. They’ll be at it all night, I reckon. And, tell you what, I’ll bet she comes with us when we go to France. If she’s any sort of actress, I’ll lay a wager they’ll want her. They need someone fast – Prudenza’s not far off the size of a buffalo now, isn’t she?’

Beppe’s heart is racing so fast now he feels almost light-headed.

35

The early-morning light is pushing its way in around the edges of the shutters in Marco da Correggio’s bedchamber, its silvery bleakness contrasting with the yellow glow of the single candle on the table by the bed. Marco is on his knees, roughly folding a second doublet; he pushes it into a large leather saddlebag, into which he has already stuffed two shirts, a tangle of hose, a spare pair of boots and a bag of coins; then, muttering to himself, he opens another chest and rummages through the contents, pulling out pieces of clothing and discarding them higgledy-piggledy across the floor.

‘Bloody thing – why do I never seem able to find a damn thing I’m looking for?’ he says, slamming down the lid of the chest.

Abandoning his search, he snuffs the candle and grabs the saddlebag by the straps, rough-fastening it as he leaves the room. Closing the door to his apartment, and taking the stairs two at a time, he leaves the building by the street door. His horse, stabled nearby, is saddled within minutes without recourse to the elderly stable-man, who remains deeply asleep in his little bed above the stalls, unaware of the activity below him, and before many people are awake in Bologna, Marco is on the road, heading north towards Verona, with his breath hanging in clouds around his head in the chill early air. The horse’s hoof-beats ring out clear in the stillness.

Over in the Villa Castellino, Maddalena di Maccio is lying on her back beneath heavy woollen blankets, staring up at the canopied cover of her bed, her hands splayed protectively around the swell of her belly. Beside her, old Paolo di Maccio is asleep, his mouth agape, his breath harshly regular. She turns her head to look at him; the jut of his beaky nose and the wet gleam of his sagging lower lip, just visible in the early light, repulse her. Staring at him with nauseous dislike for several long seconds, she then turns away from him, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, pressing the side of her head into her pillow.