The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  ‘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.’

  ‘That I have not, signore.’ Zanetti’s voice is calm and steady. ‘I’m sure I should remember someone of that description most particularly.’

  ‘Bastard whore stole a purse full of coins from me.’

  Sofia hears Zanetti tutting his tongue against his teeth. ‘Despicable indeed!’

  There is a long pause.

  Then the heavy-bellied man says, ‘Cazzo! We’re a pair of bloody idiots! We’ve been wasting our time. Luigi!’

  ‘Signore?’ The servant’s voice.

  ‘We’ve been running around this damned city for nothing. God, I’m a fool! We don’t need to find her – we need the mistress. Luigi, go now, straight away, and find Signora… what was her name? The seamstress. Romano. That’s it: Romano.’

  Sofia puts her hands over her mouth.

  ‘And tell her what a treacherous, thieving bitch her little needlewoman really is.’ There is a moment’s pause, then Sofia hears the man mutter, ‘I’ll show that filthy little puttana what happens to anybody who dares to treat me like…’

  The big shadow moves away from the cart, fading and blurring as it goes, and Sofia misses the end of the sentence. A minute passes. Then a corner of the back flap is lifted and Sofia sees Niccolò Zanetti’s face peering in. ‘He’s gone,’ he says. ‘Quite gone. I saw him leave the piazza.’

  Sofia climbs awkwardly out of the cart. Feeling sick, she stares around her for a moment, then looks at Niccolò Zanetti. ‘Thank you, signore. I’m very grateful to you for… I’m… but I’m sorry – I have to go.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘I’m finished in Modena, signore. This is it. You heard him – he’s going to tell Signora Romano that I’m a thief.’

  ‘But he’s mistaken. You are innocent. Will she not understand that when you tell her?’

  ‘No,’ Sofia says, shaking her head. ‘She won’t. She won’t understand. She’ll want to have me put away, or run out of town. I can’t stay. I have to get out of the city – straight away. At least for the moment. Till the fuss dies down. But thank you. Thank you so much.’ She reaches out and takes Niccolò Zanetti’s hand for a second, and then turns from him and begins to run once more, across the piazza towards the Porta Nuovo.

  ‘Signorina!’ she hears Zanetti’s voice calling behind her. ‘Stop! Listen! I have an idea. Why don’t you…?’

  But her footsteps are clattering on cobbles now and his last few words go unheard.

  2

  A couple of miles outside Modena

  A black-masked figure, barefoot, in untucked shirt and patched breeches, sidles out from a patch of shadow, carrying a ladder under his arm: half of it projecting out before him, and half behind. It is clear he is anxious about being overheard – each step is being carefully taken. He looks around him continually, eyes wide behind the mask, as though expecting disaster.

  Another figure – noticeably older, shorter, stockier – creeps in step some paces behind him; this newcomer is clearly taking even more elaborate care than the first to remain undetected. This second man then drops something metallic, which clatters as it hits the floor. Startled, the masked man spins around, whirling the ladder, as the second crouches down to pick up the fallen object. The ladder skims above the head of the crouching figure, who then stands up. Coming around full circle, the ladder hits the second man hard in the backside. He falls forward onto all fours.

  ‘Yes, yes, that works rather well,’ he says, getting to his feet and dusting off the knees of his breeches. ‘But I dropped the key too soon, I think. Let’s just try it again before we stop for this evening. Once more, please, Beppe? And then, if it works, let’s run through that little piece of dialogue, too.’

  Beppe puts the ladder down on the ground and pulls off the black mask. Rubbing his face, he pushes his fingers through already untidy, cropped black hair; then, yawning and stretching long limbs, he nods. ‘If you’d like to.’

  ‘Take it from where you come on. I need to give you a little more time with the creeping before I drop the key – build up the tension that little bit more.’

  ‘Mmm. If I stop and start a couple more times, then you can stop and start with me – exactly as I do – and then on the…’ He frowns, considering. ‘… on the fourth stop, that’s when you can do the drop. And I’ll spin.’

  A woman’s voice calls from some way off to the left. ‘Agostino!’

  The second man turns round sharply. ‘Agostino!’ comes the voice again. ‘How long are you going to be, you and Beppe?’

  ‘Not long, cara!’ he calls back. ‘No more than a few moments!’

  ‘Your soup’s ready.’

  ‘Thank you, cara. I won’t be long!’

  ‘Beppe, there’s enough for you too, if you want some.’

  Beppe grins at Agostino. ‘Thank you, Cosima,’ he calls back. ‘I’d love some.’

  ‘You do know it will be unspeakable, don’t you?’ Agostino says, shaking his head. ‘She gets worse by the week.’

  ‘Better than no soup.’

  Agostino raises an eyebrow. Beppe laughs. ‘Well, maybe not,’ he says. ‘It’ll fill your belly, though.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Agostino shakes his head. ‘Let’s run through the lazzo again before we face the…’ Closing his eyes, he claps the back of his hand to his forehead in a gesture of exhausted despair. ‘… the Ordeal of the S
oup. I want us to have this little piece absolutely right before our first performance in Modena.’

  Beppe picks up his ladder. Holding it upright, as though it is leaning against a wall, he climbs up some half-dozen rungs, and stands there balancing. Then, as the ladder begins to wobble, he jumps nimbly backwards and lands back on the ground, pulling the ladder neatly with him.

  Agostino laughs. ‘Oh, I like that, Beppe – use it somewhere. How high can you get?’

  Beppe shrugs. ‘About six, seven rungs.’