‘See if you can make it to the top.’
Beppe shakes his head. ‘Too risky.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘With a shorter ladder I might get up and over the top, though. And down the other side. It’d seem as though the ladder were stuck to the ground.’
‘I’ll get Vico to make one for you. Say six, seven rungs high?’
Beppe bends and picks up his ladder again. He carries it off to the edge of the little makeshift stage, then once again creeps out from the shadows, staring around him fitfully, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Agostino follows him. Beppe takes one big step and pauses, foot high. Agostino takes a much smaller step, but pauses in time with Beppe. Beppe gingerly puts his raised foot to the floor. Agostino copies him. Beppe shuffles a step. So does Agostino. Beppe takes three long strides. Agostino follows suit, with shorter strides – and then he drops the key. As he crouches, the ladder whirls over his head. He stands up, and is knocked to the floor once more. ‘Oh yes, much better,’ he says. ‘Dialogue now.’ He draws in a breath, leans dramatically forward from the hips and, peering myopically towards Beppe, says in a very different, higher-pitched squawk of a voice, ‘Arlecchino! Is that you?’
Beppe, hopping from foot to foot now, says, ‘Yes, sir. Oh yes – it most certainly is. I told you I’d be here… and here I quite definitely… am.’
‘I want you to go and fetch my daughter.’
‘In a moment, sir, in a moment. I’ll have to hurry – she’s about to explode!’
Agostino, who has been turning away from Beppe, whirls back round again, mouth dropping open into an O of surprise. ‘Explode? My daughter?’
‘No, no, no! My pot of stew! She’s been on the fire too long.’
‘On the fire?’ Agostino seems to wobble with bemusement and his voice becomes even more shrill.
‘I don’t want her bottom to burn…’
‘Her bottom? My daughter’s —?’
Beppe puts his hands on his hips and doubles over for a second. Straightening up, he shakes his head violently. ‘No, no, no, no! My pot of stew!’
‘Oh, you really are the most aggravating creature – get on with you! Quick!’
‘The quickest way is up the ladder, sir…’
Beppe breaks off. ‘Hey – tell you what, Ago, if I had the shorter ladder here, I could make quite a nonsense of trying to get up it, and keeping on finding myself back on the ground again because I’ve gone up and over without realizing.’
‘Yes – that could be marvellous. I’m sure Vico will be able to knock up the new ladder in time for Bologna.’
‘Good. Sorry – let’s get back to it. From quickest up the ladder…’
Beppe repeats the line. Agostino’s stance changes again. Bending slightly, one hand now on his crotch, he leans forwards once more, screwing up his eyes and glaring at Beppe. ‘Get on with you, you pestilential little… er… little…’
‘Little what, sir?’
Agostino glares at him. ‘I have little patience with you, that’s what!’
Beppe lays his ladder at an angle against a big wooden chest. Scrambling up and along it on all fours like a monkey, he squeals loudly when the ladder up-ends and seesaws him down towards the ground again on the other side of the chest. Rolling, head over heels, still holding the ladder, he somehow manages to stand upright with it again, and hurries off, away from Agostino.
Agostino claps his hands together a few times. ‘Thank you, Beppe, that was perfect. Now let’s gird our loins and stiffen our sinews. It’s… time…’ He shudders. ‘… for… soup.’
Laughing, Beppe leans the ladder up against the edge of the makeshift staging. He picks up his discarded mask, and, swinging it by its leather straps, jumps down from the stage and begins to make his way over rough ground towards where four covered wagons stand grouped together beneath a large oak tree. A fire is burning in a brazier some yards from the wagons, and an iron pot hangs above the flames.
Seated near the fire, staring into the flickering light, is a handsome woman, dressed in vivid red, with a bright parti-coloured wrap around her shoulders; her hair hangs down her back. She looks up and smiles as the two men approach; reaching out behind her, she picks up two wooden bowls, then ladles soup from the iron pot into each.
‘There you are,’ she says in a voice husky from tiredness, handing them their bowls and then big torn hunks of bread. ‘Eat up. Everyone else ate earlier. I didn’t like to interrupt.’
Beppe sinks neatly to sit cross-legged on the grass near the fire next to Agostino, and places his mask down by his side. He takes the proffered bowl, spoon and bread, thanks Cosima and, avoiding Agostino’s eye, begins to eat, trying not to grimace. As expected, the soup is thin and insufficiently seasoned; the vegetables and beans in it are badly overcooked. It does, however, as he had promised Agostino, fill his empty belly. A moment later, wiping out his bowl with his bread, he places it down on the grass beside him and lies back; fingers interlocked behind his head, knees crooked up, he stares at the stars. Someone – probably Vico – is playing a guitar nearby and Lidia is singing. Beppe listens for a moment, soothed by her lilting voice.
A dog comes near, sniffing Beppe’s face, its nose cold and wet against his cheek. Beppe reaches out and begins lazily to fondle its ears. The dog sits, pressing itself up against him.
Someone sits down on his other side.
‘Rain tomorrow.’ Cosima’s voice.
Beppe turns his head towards her. ‘Why do you say that? That’s a wonderful sky.’
‘It is, isn’t it? But see over there, Beppe – see what’s on its way towards us.’ She points westwards, where a thick bulwark of ugly, stuffed-looking cloud hangs menacingly low over the horizon.
Beppe rolls onto his side and peers in the direction Cosima is pointing. He swears softly. ‘Merda. Probably going to pour just as we start performing on Saturday.’
The dog thumps its tail on the ground and licks Beppe’s ear.
‘Might well do, but we’re in the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana in Bologna on Saturday, aren’t we? We can work under cover there.’
Puffing out his relief, Beppe sits up. ‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten. Thank God for that.’
‘Not often we get such a sheltered spot for the stage.’
‘Not often enough, that’s for certain.’
‘And then it’s the big Correggio house outside the city in October, don’t forget… what’s it called? Franceschina. That’s it – the Castello della Franceschina.’ Agostino leans forwards and claps a hand on Beppe’s bent knee. ‘Our venues are becoming ever more prestigious, are they not? The Coraggiosi will be performing in palaces every week within the year – you mark my words, Beppe, my boy.’
Beppe smiles and shrugs. ‘Maybe so. But you know me – I’m just as happy in a piazza.’
‘What? You have no ambition, amico, that’s your problem!’ Agostino shakes his head. ‘Look at the Gelosi – they’re being fêted and talked about wherever they go now!’
‘Oh, the Gelosi, the Gelosi. The bloody Gelosi – they are no better than we are!’ says Vico, sitting down on the far side of Beppe.
Agostino glances across at him. Dark and wiry, Vico is scowling. ‘Vico,’ he says, ‘your loyalty to the Coraggiosi is indubitably touching, but the vile and vitriolic vituperation you aim at our nearest rival troupe at every possible opportunity seems to me to be entirely uncalled-for.’
‘And the number of unnecessary syllables you stuff into every one of your endless sentences is as astonishing as ever, Agostino,’ Vico says with a quick grin. ‘I mean it, anyway. They’re good, yes, the Gelosi. They’re wonderful, in fact. But so are we.’
Cosima smiles at him. ‘Bless you, Vico. We are. We’re as good as the sum of our parts, are we not?’
Vico pecks a nod in agreement.
‘Mmm – and if it’s of any interest to anyone, I’d like to say that I’m in agreement with the general consensus…’ A tall, bearded man of about forty walks up from the wagons and sits down ne
xt to Agostino.
‘Thank you, Federico, and I’m sure you know that we are equally delighted that you chose to come and swell our ranks.’ Smirking smugly, Agostino pats the newcomer on the knee. ‘What is it – two months since you joined us?’
‘Yes, about that long.’
Agostino looks from Federico to Beppe, Vico, Cosima and Lidia, who has settled herself just behind Vico, saying, ‘But I feel I should remind you that the only way we will sustain this burgeoning success is if all the various parts of the whole bother to rehearse sufficiently.’ His smirk fades and an expression of soldierly determination takes its place. ‘So,’ he says, ‘listen to what I want from you all tomorrow.’
Beppe leans back on his arms. Agostino’s instructions are clear, concise, demanding… and humorous, and by the time he has finished, everyone is smiling, but nobody is in any doubt as to how exhausting the following day is likely to be.
Agostino jabs a finger towards each of his company, saying, ‘Go on then, off to bed, the lot of you. Poor old Giovanni Battista is already dead to the world, bless him, and I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Angelo for at least a couple of hours, so I bloody well hope he’s asleep too. Someone will have to fill him in first thing tomorrow.’
Beppe sees Vico and Lidia exchange glances.
Agostino says, ‘I want you all up and ready to start by first light. Do you hear that – all of you? We make our entrance into Bologna at midday, we perform in the afternoon, and I want us to have run through the whole play at least twice here before we set off.’
Vico stretches and groans. ‘First light? Twice? God, Agostino, you’re a bloody slave driver!’
Lidia puts her arms around Vico and kisses his cheek. ‘Stop complaining and come to bed.’
Getting to his feet, Beppe laughs softly. He raises a foot and nudges Vico in the shoulder with his heel. ‘You won’t get a better offer than that, amico. I’d make the most of it, if I were you.’ He turns to Cosima. ‘Shall I douse the fire?’
‘No, leave it, caro. It’ll burn itself out within the hour. Be off with you, and get some sleep.’ She reaches out to Agostino, who takes her hands and pulls her to her feet. Kissing her, he drapes an arm around her shoulders and she leans in against him affectionately.
Beppe yawns. Patting Vico on the shoulder, pecking a nod to Lidia, he collects his and Agostino’s soup bowls and spoons. Throwing them up one by one, he juggles with them for a moment, then catches them deftly and walks away towards the wagons, the dog at his heels, his footsteps soundless on the thick grass.
In the darkness over on the far side of the wagons, a young man with a perfect profile is leaning against a tree, a flask of grappa in one hand. Angelo da Bagnacavallo has been listening to Agostino’s exhortations and rolling his eyes in irritation, shaking his head scornfully. On hearing his own name mentioned, he checks, holding his breath, listening to see if anyone is aware of where he has been. Quickly satisfied that his whereabouts still seem to be a mystery to all, however, he drains his flask, blinking a couple of times against the strength of the spirit, and prepares to wait another few minutes until the rest of the troupe have settled for the night.
He has no wish to enter into conversation with anyone.
3
Just inside the walls of the city of Bologna, as the afternoon edges its way into evening, a steady mizzling rain is blurring the edges of the buildings, catching in starry droplets in the hair and lashes of anyone unfortunate enough to be out of doors. Sofia’s yellow skirts are clinging to her legs – a dark tidemark meanders around the fabric at knee-height – and cold trickles are running down from her hair into the neckline of her bodice. Gazing up at the heavy-bellied clouds as thunder growls softly, she hunches her shoulders and pulls up and over her head a length of sacking she found fallen from a passing cart. After two days and three nights out in the open, walking the twenty-five or so miles from Modena, sleeping in doorways and church porches, her now-broken shoes are oozing water at every step and her feet feel painfully chilled. The linen strip that Signor Zanetti so gently bound around her broken finger the other day is filthy now, and, within the sodden cloth, her fingertips have bleached and wrinkled.
Seeing a deep doorway, Sofia hurries to shelter under its low arch. A scrawny cat mews, stretches, and stalks across to rub itself against her legs. Sitting down on a dry step, and pulling her skirts in out of the wet, she strokes the top of the cat’s head with the tips of her fingers. It closes its eyes, pushing up against her touch. ‘Do you know,’ she says to the cat, ‘I’m so hungry now, I could almost eat you.’ The cat mews again. ‘Might you be able to catch me a mouse, little puss?’ Sofia says. The cat begins to purr. ‘We could share it, if you could.’
The cat snakes itself around her. Its fur is wet and it smells musty. ‘What am I to do, puss?’ she says, fingering its tattered ears. ‘You tell me.’ She picks a wet ringlet of hair from where it has stuck to her cheek and tucks it behind her ear. ‘Do you know, I used to have a little cat a bit like you. Once. A long time ago.’
The cat gives another plaintive little mewing cry.
Footsteps sound out some yards away. Sofia looks up. The cat stiffens, and then slips silently away. A man approaches. Thick-set, broad-shouldered, grey-haired, he is wearing a heavy cloak and boots. Sofia gets to her feet and, as the man nears her doorway, she steps forward.
‘Might you have a few coins to spare, signore?’ she says, her heart thudding with shame. ‘I have nothing to eat.’
He checks, his gaze raking her from head to foot, taking in her tangled hair, her soaked clothes and the mud-stained shoes. He runs his tongue over his lip. Sofia’s heart beats faster at the look in his eye, and she starts to feel sick.
The man’s gaze lingers on her face and then dips to her breasts. Sofia folds her arms across her front. The man shakes his head a fraction. Pushing a hand into a pocket in his breeches, he fumbles through its jingling contents; with one quick glance at the coins in his hand, he flings them at Sofia’s feet without a word. He pulls his cloak more tightly around himself and strides on, away around a corner and out of sight. Sofia does not move until he has gone, but as soon as he has disappeared, she squats down and picks up the coins, rubbing the mud from them with her thumb.
Standing, she sees that dust from the dry step on which she has been sitting has now stuck to the wet cloth of her skirts, crusting around the sodden hem; she tries to brush it off, but it clings tenaciously, so, giving up the attempt and pulling the sacking over her head, she sets off back out into the rain, heading up the Via Piella towards the city centre, clutching the coins in her good hand.
It is some minutes before she finds a likely tavern.
A yellowish light is spilling out through its part-open door to lie in glittering puddles on the cobbles. As Sofia pushes it further open and peers in, she sees some two dozen people within. Most are seated at tables, but one small group is huddled in a conspiratorial cluster by the wide fireplace, and, in an empty corner of the room, two young men are standing nose to nose, fists up, faces distorted with fury.
Sofia slips inside and stands up against the wall near the door as the huge tavern-owner pushes a massive arm like a leg of pork in between the two fighters. ‘Come on now, signori, that’s enough. Settle down now,’ he says, his voice surprisingly soft for a man of his size.
One of the young men glares at him. ‘Oh, vaffanculo! Piss off, Alberto – don’t get in my way!’
‘Hey, hey, hey… now that’s enough,’ Alberto says again. ‘Not in here, if you please, Pietro Goldoni. If you can’t settle down, then you can both take yourselves off outside and deal with your problems in the street.’
Scowling, Goldoni shoves at the other young man’s chest and then turns away. His companion staggers backwards, swearing in his turn; then, righting himself, he lurches back towards Goldoni, grabbing his upper arm and swinging him around. Drawing back a fist, he lets fly, catching Goldoni hard on the jaw. Goldoni grunts in pain. He rea
ches out and pulls the other boy in towards him by his shirt.
Several of the people seated at the tables gasp. Someone pushes a chair back, scraping its legs across the stone flags.
Alberto shakes his head and puffs out a sigh. Taking a handful of Pietro Goldoni’s doublet in one hand, and a fistful of the other boy’s shirt in the other, he parts them with ease. Turning them both towards the door, and lifting them so each is almost up on his toes, he half-walks, half-drags them through the jumble of tables to the entrance without a word. Kicking the door wide open, he swings both young men out into the street; both fall forwards onto the wet ground.
Alberto pulls the door closed and brushes his hands together. ‘There – now stay out until you can sit and drink together in peace, the pair of you,’ he says loudly to the closed door, wagging a massive forefinger.
He crosses the room, shaking his head.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 3