The Girl With the Painted Face (47 page)

‘What?’ Niccolò stops and stares at her.

Sofia repeats herself.

‘Go with them – the Gelosi? Oh, Sofia, that’s wonderful. I can’t believe it – you with the Gelosi! I couldn’t be more pleased for you. You will go, won’t you?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

The prospect of days, weeks,
months
ahead without Beppe is filling her head, and for a moment she can hear nothing – just a thick silence – as she tries to examine her feelings. She heard what she heard. There is no getting away from the fact that she heard Beppe’s own voice uttering the words:
I made a mistake. I hate to admit it but she’s trouble. I should never have got close to her. I made a mistake. She’s trouble. She’s trouble.
It’s not as if some other person had reported those words to her – that, she would never have believed. She thought he loved her. Until those last two days, that is, when he had begun to seem distracted and unlike himself.

But what if she is wrong?

A thin worm of doubt has begun to writhe in her belly.

She ran off so quickly – left without talking to Beppe, without asking him about what she heard; disappeared silently, unable to face the thought of confronting the unbearable. But what if she misheard – even though she knows she did not – what if she agrees to go with the Gelosi, all the way to France… and she is wrong? What if Beppe does still love her? What if, even as she thinks this through, he is as unhappy to be without her as she is to be without him? An image of him gazing up at the sky with misery etched over his dear, tilted face pushes into her mind and she holds her breath, squeezing her eyes tight shut for a second, trying to banish it. The thought that she might have brought this despair upon herself unnecessarily grips her scalp with ice-cold fingers.

‘… and I think you’d – Sofia? What is it? Are you unwell?’ Niccolò’s voice interrupts her thoughts; taking her hand, he pulls her to a halt. ‘You look as though you’re in pain. What is it, child?’

They have arrived at the piazza; Simone da Bologna is up on the stage, as yet dressed in nothing more than untucked shirt and grubby breeches. He is smiling and has raised a hand, waggling his fingers in greeting. Sofia avoids having to give Niccolò an answer; shaking her head, and smiling at him, she merely says, ‘Keep Ippo close, won’t you?’ and, after giving him a brief hug, she runs towards where Simone is holding an arm out to shepherd her away to the wagons.

Niccolò watches her go, then, glancing around the piazza, sees a stone seat over at the eastern side. Determining to sit until the show begins, he pulls a thin leather belt from around his waist and, threading the end through the buckle, makes a loop, which he puts over Ippo’s head. Ippo submits affably to being thus tethered, and trots next to Niccolò as they cross over to the bench. Sitting first on his haunches, he then sinks to lie unmoving at Niccolò’s feet, his nose between his two outstretched front paws. Only the continual twitching of his tufted eyebrows betrays the fact that he is not asleep.

Beppe spent last night in a doorway. In a wide street not far from the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana he found a deep, pilastered recess at the top of a flight of three steps, and there sat hunched, with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head resting against a wall. He is not sure, but thinks he might have slipped into sleep a couple of times. Standing now, rubbing his face and pushing his hands through hair that feels damp and knotted, he tries to ease the stiffness from his back, rolling each shoulder and shaking out each arm. His buttocks are chilled and numb; he rubs them now with the palms of both hands and, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he lifts first one knee, then the other, hugging each leg in turn close to his chest.

Despite his fatigue and the aches in his limbs, he cannot help smiling.

One way or another, he will see Sofia today.

He was astonished by what he learned yesterday. Thank God he happened upon that particular person! If the idea he suggested works as he hopes it will, Sofia will not be able to doubt his feelings for another moment. Thinking about her now, it is all he can do to stop himself running across the piazza and calling for her. But he must hold back until later – what was arranged yesterday will be the best way. He pictures the surprise on Sofia’s face and his smile widens.

Niccolò is dozing, his chin dropped to his chest, his mouth a little open. He did not sleep well, having spent hours pacing the otherwise deserted upper room in the little tavern, anxious about Sofia and what might have been transpiring between her and the Gelosi, and here, on his bench in the warm October sun, his eyes have closed despite his best intentions. His hands are now lying limply in his lap, the thin leather strap threaded loosely between his fingers.

He does not stir for some time – not until Ippo scrabbles to his feet, barks, and races away. The leather belt tugs briefly at Niccolò’s fingers, then slips free and Ippo is gone. Startled, Niccolò sits up straight and looks around him, disoriented. He catches a brief glimpse of Ippo’s whip-thin tail disappearing between two long-coated men on the far side of the piazza and then the dog is lost from sight.

Getting to his feet, his heart racing, he sets off in pursuit – he cannot lose the dog. Sofia will be heartbroken. Why? Why has Ippo run like that? He has been so docile and obedient all the way from Faenza.

The piazza is more crowded than when he first closed his eyes at least an hour before. It was almost deserted when he first sat down, but now, over on the far side, where the dog vanished, quite a throng seems to have gathered – of apparently aimless men and boys, loitering and talking together. Niccolò realizes dimly, from the snatches of conversation that he gleans as he edges his breathless way through, that they have already begun staking out their places for the show later that afternoon. Word has clearly spread that the Gelosi are in town.

Reaching the spot where he saw Ippo disappear, he scans to right and left, but can see nothing. He begins to call the dog’s name: it is a two-note, sing-song call to begin with, which hardens into a shout as no dog appears.

‘Oh God, dog, where in heaven’s name are you?’ he mutters. ‘I simply can’t tell her I’ve lost you.’ He shouts again. And again.

A narrow street leads away from the piazza a few yards to the left. It is the only way Ippo can have gone, Niccolò thinks now; he excuses himself as he sidles between a pair of corpulent elderly men whose faces register irritable disdain at the interruption, and then sets off down the little street, calling increasingly desperately as he goes. Several doors are open along the street; into each of these, Niccolò peers, shouting for Ippo. He has no response from three of these doorways, but an oath is snarled back from one and a lump of stale bread is thrown at him from another.

And then he turns a corner and sees him. Ippo is barking joyously, tail wagging, standing on his back legs, with his front paws up… against Beppe’s legs. Beppe is bending over, and he is laughing and ruffling the dog’s ears. Niccolò’s mouth opens. Turning, Beppe sees him and the laugh widens into a broad, tilted smile. ‘Niccolò!’ he says, raising a hand.

‘But… but…’ Niccolò can manage nothing but a confused stammer.

Dropping back onto all fours, Ippo trots beside his master as Beppe strides over to hug Niccolò. ‘Niccolò, I’m so glad to see you. How come you’re here? Was Ippo with you?’

‘She’s here, Beppe. She’s in one of the wagons with the Gelosi.’

‘I know.’

‘She said… she said she overheard you saying —’

Beppe winces. ‘Don’t. Please don’t. I think I know what she must have heard. But… it was only a snatch of what I was saying – and it wasn’t what she thought at all.’

‘She told me what you said. She’s heartbroken, Beppe.’

‘I was only saying what I thought Angelo was trying to
make
me say – I was angry with him. What I
said
wasn’t what I was
feeling
. Quite the opposite. I love her, Niccolò. So much. Losing her has been like losing a leg. I’ve been searching for her for days.’

‘Oh, thank God for that.’ Niccolò looks skyward for a second, crosses himself, then smiles back at Beppe. ‘Come with me then. Let’s go and find her.’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘What? Why not? She’s just over there…’

‘I know.’

‘Then why —?’

‘If you see her, don’t tell her I’m here. We have it worked out – I know what I’m doing.’

‘
We?
Who —?’

And, squatting on his heels again, as he starts once more to fondle his dog, looking up at Niccolò and squinting against a shaft of sunlight, Beppe explains. Niccolò’s mouth is an O of incredulity – an O which rapidly flattens and widens into a grin. ‘Oh, that will be worth watching! I won’t say a thing, Beppe, I promise. I doubt I will see her to talk to her before the performance, anyway.’ He pauses. ‘How are the rest of the Coraggiosi?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve not seen them for the best part of a week.’

‘How are they managing without you?’

‘I don’t know that, either. I’m not too worried, though: I don’t know if they are planning any performances, but if they are, Vico has stood in as Arlecchino before – that time when I broke my leg, do you remember?’

Niccolò nods.

‘I’ve come away with their blessing. I just want to get Sofia back to them quickly.’

Niccolò hesitates, then says, ‘Beppe, they’ve asked her if she’ll go with them – the Gelosi. To France.’

‘What?’

‘Their Colombina is pregnant. They want Sofia to go with them until their girl is fit to perform again.’ He pauses a second. ‘She hasn’t said no.’

Beppe stares at him for a moment and his face stiffens as he considers what Niccolò has said. ‘Has she said yes?’

‘No – not in so many words.’

‘Good. Then let’s go back to the piazza. You wait for the performance, Niccolò,’ Beppe says. ‘Take Ippo. I need to get ready for… well, for what I’m going to do later. Don’t go far – and come and find us at the end of the show.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.’

Niccolò pats Beppe’s shoulder again; then the two of them turn and walk back along the narrow street, back towards the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana. The dog’s leash now held more tightly in his hand, Niccolò heads for the bench on which he had been sitting before, while Beppe, shouldering his leather bag, hesitates for a moment, then ducks into the shadows of the east-facing colonnade.

It is strange to watch this set of strangers preparing to perform, Sofia thinks as she watches the Gelosi
going through all the same rigmaroles that she has witnessed with the Coraggiosi countless times. They have made up their faces, polished their masks, donned their costumes; Flaminio Scala, as Capitano Spavento, is now pacing with an endearingly familiar ponderous, bent-kneed stride around the back of the stage, his mouth below his mask screwed sideways in a leering grimace, running through his set speeches in a muttered undertone. Isabella and Francesco, both undeniably beautiful in their lavish costumes, are hand in hand, chins high, both exquisite faces expressionless as they breathe slowly and steady themselves for their opening scene. Five men to whom Sofia has not spoken are throwing a ball to each other: a white-faced Pedrolino, three indeterminate
zanni
characters and the hook-nosed, mustachioed Brighella in his white and green jacket and trousers. The speed with which the ball is passing from hand to hand is increasing by the minute. Not once do they let it drop.

She has whitened her face again – just as Beppe did for her before – though this time there is no pearl. With pinked cheeks and reddened lips, with coloured ribbons in her hair, in a dress borrowed from Prudenza – and pinned to fit – she is Colombina once more.

Simone da Bologna appears behind her; he takes her by the elbow. Seeing the diamond-patterned jacket and trousers, the black hat, the wooden bat stuck through his belt, her heart flips over yet again.

‘Ready?’ he says, smiling.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘Want to run through it again?’

‘Not the speech – just the run-up to it, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to risk missing the moment.’

‘You won’t miss it. But let’s walk it through again.’ Simone stands back, glancing round to make sure he has enough space. ‘We’ve written Colombina out of most of the
canovaccii
, so you have hardly any material to remember, apart from the new speech.’

Sofia nods, still privately astonished at the generosity of this group of strangers, who have been so quickly prepared to alter their entire afternoon’s performance for her, with almost no notice, on little more than a whim.

‘Then,’ Simone says, ‘after Arlecchino has asked you what’s troubling you, you’ll be so irritated with him that he has forgotten, yet again, that you’ll stalk off right up to the leading edge of the stage and talk
to
him without looking
at
him. Look out over the audience – but not at them: as though they’re not there. Arlecchino will listen for a moment as you begin to recount your misfortunes, then he’ll pretend to lose interest and almost fall asleep on his feet. Like this…’ Simone’s jaw sags momentarily, his shoulders slump and his knees bend outwards. He looks the picture of vacant boredom.

‘Yes.’ Despite her tension, Sofia smiles at the sight of him.

‘Then as you say that terrible word, “
murder
”, he’ll wake with a jump’ – Simone straightens suddenly – ‘looking horrified. It’s only then that he’ll start involving himself in that dialogue that we’ve been through several times now.’

‘Yes, I’m quite happy with that part. But I just wanted to be quite sure that Colombina mustn’t notice Arlecchino not listening to her.’

‘No, she definitely mustn’t – far funnier if she’s passionately declaring her unfortunate state to the audience, and – so she thinks – to Arlecchino, while behind her in reality he’s yawning and clearly bored by what she’s saying, and edging as far away from her as possible to avoid the responsibility of having to take any notice of her.’

A thin, reedy trumpet sounds a jaunty fanfare.