Sofia scrambles past him and makes for the door. The servant is standing just outside, but Sofia knocks him off balance as she runs out of the room.
‘What the —?’
‘Stop her!’ comes a hoarse voice from the sala. ‘Little bitch! She has my purse!’
‘Stop!’ The servant starts down the stairs after Sofia, but she is too quick. She reaches the front door and is out on the street before the servant has even made the foot of the stairs.
‘Come back here, you thieving bitch!’
Cosima watches Sofia for a moment. ‘And you can sew, can you?’ she says.
‘When my hand is working properly, yes. Yes, I can. I was working for one of Modena’s best seamstresses. I made this dress, signora.’
She shrugs apologetically, holding her skirts out sideways, and sees Cosima’s gaze taking in the mud-stains, the creased and water-marked skirts, the rip just below the bodice. ‘It didn’t always look like this. It’s the only dress I have now, signora,’ she says. ‘I didn’t have time to bring any of my belongings away from Modena with me. I’m afraid it’s been badly spoiled in the rain.’
‘Yes, perhaps it has.’ Cosima bends forwards, and takes a fold of the skirt between finger and thumb. Rubbing the cloth, she nods her approval. ‘It’s well made – I can see that. Your stitching is very fine.’
There is a long pause. Sofia lets her skirts fall back down. She holds Cosima’s gaze. From the corner of her eye she can see that both Agostino and Niccolò Zanetti are watching her too. Then Agostino leans across and whispers into Cosima’s ear. Cosima’s eyes widen; then she frowns. Finally, lifting her chin a fraction, her gaze rakes Sofia from head to toe. She says, ‘I could lend you a dress whilst you wash that one – it might be a little big on you.’
Sofia holds her breath.
Cosima said, ‘I trust you will not be expecting luxury. We sleep in taverns only when we have the money; it’s in the wagons, in barns or just on the ground when we don’t.’
‘Ha!’ Agostino says loudly. ‘It most certainly is. But as it so happens, we’ve even more of a treat tonight than a tavern, child! We’ve just been offered hospitality in the house of a well-wisher – real, genuine hospitality. Food and drink and somewhere to sleep – for all of us. You must be bringing us luck already! And, then, on top of that, it occurs to me that —’ He glances over at Lidia, then checks. ‘No, that should wait,’ he says, more to himself than to anyone else. ‘Now is not the time.’
Niccolò Zanetti puts his arm around Sofia’s shoulders. ‘Good,’ he says quietly. ‘That’s good. Now shall we strap up that poor hand of yours again?’
‘You’ll stay with us tonight too, won’t you, Niccolò?’ Cosima says. ‘You’ve said you’ll share the meal, so stay with us afterwards.’
‘What? Oh, I don’t know…’
‘Nonsense. Of course you shall,’ Agostino says firmly. ‘It’s far too long since we’ve had the luxury of sitting down and sharing news.’
‘Then yes, thank you, I should love to.’
Sofia starts as someone else speaks from just behind her, in the heavy Bergamo accent she heard on stage earlier.
‘Hey, Niccolò. We haven’t seen you in an age. How long have you been in Bologna?’
It is the young man in the diamond-patterned leggings. He shakes Zanetti’s hand, clapping the little apothecary on the shoulder. Then Niccolò Zanetti reaches out and takes Sofia’s elbow, drawing her in towards him. ‘Beppe,’ he says, ‘Beppe, this is Sofia. Sofia Genotti.’
Beppe smiles at her. ‘I saw you earlier, didn’t I?’
Sofia nods.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’
‘I thought it was wonderful,’ Sofia says honestly, feeling her colour rise under Beppe’s scrutiny; he is watching her carefully. His face might not be perfectly proportioned, like the handsome Angelo da Bagnacavallo’s, she thinks now, and his clothes are worn and threadbare, but Beppe’s eyes are huge and dark and his smile warm and wide and infectious, and for a moment she does not know where to look. Her face feels hot.
‘Beppe, Sofia is a seamstress! She’s agreed to come along with us when we leave Bologna to restore our costumes to their former glory,’ Agostino says loudly, putting a hand on Sofia’s shoulder. ‘What a gift from the heavens, eh? No longer will the Coraggiosi be forced to resemble a tawdry pack of brightly coloured ragamuffins! No!’ He begins to wave his other arm in a grand, sweeping gesture of proclamation. ‘We shall once more be fit to bestride the stage like the bejewelled colossi we —’
‘God, Agostino, you do talk crap!’ Another young man has come up from the wagons to stand near Beppe; his hands are on his hips and his eyes glitter with mischief.
‘And, you, Vico Savarini, you are impolite, indecorous and ill mannered.’ Agostino points an accusatory finger in Vico’s direction. A thread of anxiety tightens in Sofia’s chest at his words, until she sees that Agostino’s eyes too are dancing.
‘No he’s not,’ Beppe says. ‘He’s just bloody rude.’
‘Ah, but I’m an accurate observer, Beppe, my friend, you can’t deny that. An accurate observer.’
Beppe laughs.
Vico snorts.
Agostino pulls an open-mouthed face of mock outrage.
Sofia stares from one man to another, astonished. She has never before met people who bicker and banter and laugh with such ease and obvious affection. She has no idea what to think.
Niccolò Zanetti says quietly, ‘Don’t look so worried – you’ll become accustomed to their ways, Sofia. And, whatever they say, however rude and offensive they may sound on occasions, just remember that you will never have a more loyal friend than one of the Coraggiosi here. Never. If they have taken you as one of them, then they’ll not let you down.’
Beppe says, ‘You’re right there, Niccolò.’ He eyes Sofia for a moment, then, turning to Agostino, says, ‘We should do things properly, don’t you think? This evening? After the meal. After our hosts have retired for the night. A real scelta ceremony.’
‘A scelta? Oh, Beppe, what a tremendous idea!’ Agostino says, sounding delighted. ‘Sofia, my dear, Beppe is quite right. We’ll do it tonight!’
Sofia swallows uncomfortably.
‘Sofia, this is a real privilege,’ Niccolò Zanetti says quietly. ‘It’s not many are offered a proper scelta. It used to happen often, whenever a newcomer joined a troupe, but people don’t seem to trouble with such things any more.’
‘What will I have to do?’
‘Oh, they’ll do it all. You’ll enjoy it. But you’ll have to wait and see.’
The great sala runs the full width of the house, some thirty feet from side to side. The many windows are small and set high in the walls; below them, several huge tapestries run right around the room, depicting a series of tableaux set in an idyllic landscape filled with animals, birds, fruit and flowers. The high ceiling is painted in big chequerboard squares of red and black. On a credenza in one corner, a little yellow bird sits on a perch in a large cage. As Sofia watches it, it chirrups, fluffs its feathers and hops down on to the floor of the cage to peck at a few fallen seeds.
A fire is still burning in the huge fireplace at the western end, but the dozen or so big beeswax candles in brackets, which earlier filled the room with dancing light, have all but burned out and are now little more than a collection of soft stalactites, dribbling down from their sconces. The long table has been cleared of the remains of the substantial meal they have eaten: eels, oysters, lamb, melanzane, beans, tiny parcels of pasta filled with pumpkin and sage, plums and peaches and enormous bunches of the biggest and sweetest grapes Sofia can remember eating. All that remains to remind her of the meal is a comforting feeling of drowsiness and the soft pressure of her full belly beneath the constricting waist of her skirts.
Sofia takes stock of the room. Rarely has she set foot in such a place – a room so large and well appointed – and certainly never as an invited guest. Only a handful of times in her seventee
n years, when delivering finished garments to wealthy customers, has she even seen a place so sumptuous, let alone eaten and drunk within it. Niccolò has truly brought her luck.
A large pile of blankets has been collected from the bedchambers of the great house by a handful of servants; they have been heaped untidily in a corner of the room, ready for the troupe to wrap themselves in for the night. Eyeing the pile and imagining the night to come, Sofia wonders at the thought of how comfortable and safe she already feels in the company of these strangers – and how different it all is from last night in Alberto’s cramped tavern room lying next to the ugly, sweat-smelling traveller who had thought her a whore.
Agostino, seated in a wooden cross-framed chair up near the fire, raises a glass. ‘Let’s drink another toast to the wonderful Signor da Campo and his lovely wife,’ he says. ‘Here’s to their hospitality and generosity; here’s to mountains of good food and spiced wine, and to a warm fire and to a good night’s sleep ahead.’
‘Here’s to all that, indeed,’ Cosima says softly, and the other members of the troupe murmur their agreement.
‘Don’t forget what we said earlier, Agostino,’ Beppe says from his place on the floor on the other side of the hearth. ‘About the scelta. The signore and his wife have gone to bed. Now’s the perfect time.’
‘It is.’
‘And this room’s the perfect place.’
Agostino smiles. ‘It is, Beppe, it most certainly is.’ He speaks to the room at large and his voice is lilting and musical. ‘Signori and signore of the Coraggiosi, we are privileged indeed. Not only do we have the memory of a successful performance today to comfort us as we prepare to sleep; not only are our bellies reminding us of how well we have eaten this evening, and our spinning heads of the wine we have consumed – no, we are more fortunate even than this. For we have increased. We are greater than we were before. We have taken on a new member.’
Sofia’s face burns so fiercely at this that her eyes began to sting. She closes them tightly for a second, then blinks several times.
‘Sofia, here’ – Agostino holds out a hand towards her – ‘joins us tonight, as you all know. But Beppe suggests a proper welcome: a scelta. What say you?’
Sofia hears a general murmur of assent. She looks around at them all. Clustered together on chairs, on the rush-strewn floor, on the stone hearth up near the dying flames, warm and drowsy and well fed, they are all watching her now. Vico has his arm around Lidia; Federico is absentmindedly scratching his beard. Old Giovanni Battista, head on his hand, looks on the point of sleep and Cosima is curled against Agostino’s legs.
Then Lidia says, ‘Agostino, wait. Angelo’s not here, is he? Shouldn’t we have the whole troupe for a scelta?’
Frowning, Agostino glances about the room, as though Angelo might be hiding unobserved in the shadows. ‘I hadn’t noticed. Where is he?’
Lidia shrugs, and Vico says, ‘He went off somewhere after the performance, didn’t he? God knows where. He said he had an errand to run. Perhaps he’s met someone – it’s happened before.’
Lidia says, ‘He’s been very strange for weeks.’
Standing up and brushing dust off his breeches, Beppe says, ‘That’s all as may be. He’s usually strange, isn’t he? But I don’t think Sofia should have to miss out just because our… our much-fêted inamorato has chosen to spend the night somewhere else.’
‘No, Beppe, you’re right,’ Agostino says. ‘The scelta will have to take place without him.’ Crossing to where all the troupe’s bags and packs have been piled at the far side of the sala and squatting in front of the pile, he pulls open one large canvas sack and rummages inside it for a moment, arms almost up to the armpits, muttering to himself, then he stands back upright. In his hand is a small, tightly corked earthenware pot. He goes back to his place, then pauses. ‘So, let us begin. Who speaks for the newcomer?’
‘I do. As the one who suggested the scelta, I speak for her.’
‘Thank you, Beppe. And who else?’ Agostino looks around him. ‘Two must speak for a newcomer, after all, must they not?’
Niccolo Zanetti gets to his feet and clears his throat. ‘Me, of course. I will.’
‘Good,’ Agostino says, nodding his approval. ‘Nicco, Beppe, let’s have you up here.’
Niccolò and Beppe move to stand side by side close to Agostino.
‘Now you, Sofia. Come here, child.’
Her heart thudding, Sofia gets to her feet.
‘Stand between Signor Zanetti and Beppe, here.’
Sofia steps over Vico’s legs, holding her skirts up and watching her feet as she goes, edging out towards where Agostino, Niccolò and Beppe are waiting for her. Pulse now racing, she places herself in the gap between Niccolò and Beppe.
‘Take one each of their hands.’
Signor Zanetti, on her left, gives her a quick reassuring smile. On her right, Beppe fingers the edge of her clean new linen bandage. He says quietly, leaning down towards her, ‘I don’t want to do anything to hurt your fingers. Are you happy for me to hold your hand?’
Sofia looks up at him and nods. Glancing back down, she watches his thumb, rubbing softly back and forth over the binding, and something shifts and turns over itself in her belly at his touch. Yes, she thinks – more than happy.
‘Very well,’ Agostino says. ‘Are you ready?’
Beppe and Niccolò both answer in the affirmative, but, nipping the end of her tongue, Sofia says nothing. Much to her surprise, at their words, a stinging has begun behind her eyes and she can feel a thickening in her throat. Not since the death of her mother has anyone – anyone – shown an interest in her like this; Sofia is suddenly afraid that if she moves, or speaks, long-dammed tears might spill for the first time in years over their well-constructed barricades.
‘Vico,’ Agostino says then. ‘Fetch your guitar. Give us some music.’
Vico scrambles across Lidia’s legs and crosses to the far side of the room, where, pulling open the drawstrings of another capacious leather bag, he draws from it a small and elaborately decorated guitar. Coming back over and seating himself cross-legged at one end of the long table, he begins to play.
Federico reaches into the big wood basket and puts three more large logs onto the fire. Flames crackle and spark around the new wood, and the light in the room brightens and begins to flicker cheerfully.
‘Fratelli.’ Agostino speaks more slowly now, more deliberately, a little louder; his expression is solemn and serious, though his eyes, she sees, are alight with obvious happiness. ‘You stand here with the newcomer. Speak for her now – the moment is right.’
Vico picks at the strings of his instrument.
Squaring his shoulders, Niccolò says, ‘This child asks that she may be permitted to join the august company of the Coraggiosi.’
Sofia swallows. Her throat now feels full and tight and a little too small. She nips again at the end of her tongue.
‘Two members must affirm her intentions,’ Agostino says. ‘Are you those two?’
Beppe and Niccolò speak in unison. ‘We are.’
Niccolò adds in a hissed whisper, ‘I speak, of course, Agostino, as a long-time friend of the Coraggiosi.’ He pauses. ‘Not as a member.’
‘Ah, but you’ve been an honorary member for years, Nicco.’ Agostino smiles at his friend; then, turning to Sofia, he says, ‘Listen, child, I have several questions for you, which I need you to answer truthfully.’
Vico’s tune is now plaintive and tender.
‘Are you ready for a life on the road in the company of vagabonds and mountebanks and ne’er-do-wells?’
Sofia nods.
‘Say “I am”,’ Beppe whispers in her ear.
‘I am.’ Her voice sounds like somebody else’s, blurting out into the stillness of the room as though it is coming from inside a box.
‘Do you vow to be loyal to the Coraggiosi while you travel with us, and to refrain from divulging secrets of impending performances to other tro
upes such as you may come into contact with, or to anyone else who might disperse such information?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you agree to a fee of… how many are we, now you are here?’ Agostino looks from person to person, counting. ‘Nine, including Angelo… one-ninth. Do you agree to a fee of one-ninth part of whatever moneys we are fortunate enough to collect at a performance after costs?’
Astonished at the generosity of the offer, Sofia says, ‘I do.’
‘Good. We’ll sign an agreement to that effect later,’ Agostino says by way of an aside. He pauses; then, drawing in another breath, and resuming the previous tone, he says, ‘Have you spent time as a road-dweller before?’
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 8