‘Well, I hadn’t – until last week. But… I have now, and I —’
‘Just say “I have”,’ Beppe says softly.
‘Oh. Yes. I have.’
‘And with whom have you travelled in your time upon the road?’
Sofia swallows again. Unsure what to say, she opens her mouth, intending to try to explain to Agostino about meeting Niccolò in Modena, about the boy with the ribbons at the market in Bologna and her unpleasant experience in the tavern, but Beppe speaks up before she can utter a word. He says gravely, ‘She’s travelled with Genesius and Vitus, and they have pointed her in our direction.’
Sofia has no idea what he means, but Agostino beams. ‘Well, then it is clear you have indeed been chosen for us, and are most welcome. And now you must sign the Tenure of the Road.’
‘Sign…?’
Agostino nods. ‘It should by rights be dust from the edge of the highway, but we are most comfortably ensconced in here, and I’m sure Genesius and Vitus will accommodate the substitution.’ Turning to Beppe, he says, ‘Beppe, if you please?’ and Beppe steps back and crosses to the hearth. Scraping up a small handful of ash from the very edge of the hearth, he brings it back and stands once again next to Sofia.
Agostino says, ‘Sofia, take a pinch of the ash, please.’
Sofia picks a small pinch between finger and thumb from Beppe’s palm. It is warm – almost hot.
Agostino uncorks the little pot. ‘Drop your dust into the pot, where it can mingle with the dust of every member of the Coraggiosi, present and past.’
Sofia lets the ash fall into the neck of the pot and watches as Agostino recorks it and holds it high.
A loudly strummed set of three chords signals completion, and everybody claps.
Leaning forwards, Agostino kisses Sofia on both cheeks. Niccolò Zanetti hugs her, and Beppe lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, his eyes fixed upon her face. Cosima stands and hugs Sofia too. Lidia claps and Vico pats the rounded end of his guitar with the flat of his hand.
‘And now, all of you, the improvisation! A full scelta must conclude with an improvisation, must it not? To seal the welcome,’ Agostino says, his smile now wider than ever as he tucks the pot safely back into the bag. ‘A ball. We must have a ball, if we’re to do it properly, must we not? Beppe, have you a juggling ball?’
Beppe grins and pushes a hand into a pocket in his breeches. He brings out a leather ball about the size of a peach; highly polished, it gleams like an oversized chestnut in the firelight. Holding it up for a moment like an ancient deity’s trophy, he then throws it to Cosima, who catches it neatly, one-handed.
‘Cosima, start us off, please!’ Agostino says.
Sofia’s eyes widen, her threatened tears vanishing in the face of sudden anxiety. She turns to Beppe. ‘An improvisation? What is this? What does it mean? What am I going to have to do?’
Sitting himself down on a table, he pats the wood next to him, inviting her to sit. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything. Just watch and listen. Join in if you can.’
Sofia sits; Beppe’s leg feels warm, pressed up against hers.
‘What shall it be?’ Cosima says. ‘Terza rima, Agostino?’
‘Terza rima? God, no – are you mad?’ Vico says, his voice distorting through a yawn. ‘Far too difficult for this time of night, and after this much wine. Choose something easier, why don’t you? Start us off, and we’ll follow what you do.’
Pausing, Cosima looks up at the ceiling, frowning slightly, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, the ball held loosely in her lap. Then she stares into the fire. ‘Very well,’ she says. ‘Erm…’
‘A young man was dreaming of love and of pleasure
As he sat by the roadside one day long ago.
He sighed as he pictured his fondest heart’s treasure –
A beautiful maiden named Lina di Po.
‘But his mem’ries were flawed and he didn’t remember
That Lina had spurned him and left him for aye.
’Twas as well that he didn’t recall what had happened,
For the truth would have left him a-wishing to die.’
Her voice is soft and slow and honeyed.
Beppe sits forward. His expression very solemn, he clicks his fingers, and Cosima throws him the ball. Spinning it on his forefinger, he says,
‘Now young Lina’s virtues were sadly much lacking:
She was known as a strumpet by most of her kin.
Her fame had spread widely before and around her;
’Twas well known just how quick… she’d be tempted to sin.’
Hand over her mouth, Sofia begins to laugh. Beppe flashes her a smile. He flips the ball in the air, catches it again, then throws it over-arm to Vico, who raises an eyebrow as he says:
‘But one man knew nothing about Lina’s virtue –
Or lack of it – one man believed her to be
Nothing less than an angel descended from heaven,
A goddess, a delicate Aphrodite.’
A snort of muffled laughter. Agostino draws in a long breath. Vico passes him the ball. In a deep voice of great moment, Agostino says:
‘One fine night this young man went to visit his sweetheart.
In his arms was a bunch of the rarest of flowers.
He waited outside in a fever of longing …
Yes, he waited for hours… and hours… and hours.’
Everyone laughs. Cosima takes Agostino’s face in both her hands and kisses his mouth. Beppe straightens his expression again. He clears his throat and holds out his hand. Agostino throws him the ball. Beppe says:
‘He could picture her braiding her hair in her chamber,
Eager and desp’rate to see him again.
But if truth must be told – she was kissing another.
Who was this? Only one of a dozen young men.’
Lidia coughs. Beppe grins and flips the ball towards her. She says:
‘Our lover he waited below Lina’s chamber
Until he no longer could bear to stand still.
He climbed up a ladder right up to her window
And stood there a moment upon the stone sill.’
Clicking his fingers, Beppe summons the ball back from her.
‘Hands cupped, he peered clear through the glass trying to see her,
But what he espied made his blood run quite chilled.
She was naked – and wrapped in the arms of a soldier
And the smile on her face made it clear… she was thrilled.’
He raises his hands, clearly now relishing the development of the story. Sofia looks up at him and sees that his eyes are alight with the pleasure of telling the tale. He continues, gesticulating theatrically.
‘With a cry of despair he fell back down his ladder.
Then he ran to a tavern and ordered an ale,
Which he downed in a moment – then ordered another.
The amount he consumed would have filled up a pail.’
Sofia’s thoughts race, as she struggles to put a verse together. Twice she opens her mouth to offer a suggestion, but twice she closes it again. Then a second later, the lines are there in her head, she is ready to speak; sitting up straighter, she looks at Beppe, breath held, running her tongue over her lips. Seeing her readiness, Beppe grins and passes her the ball.
‘Go on, then, chick,’ he says quietly. ‘See what you can do.’
Sofia takes a deep breath and says:
‘With belly a-churning and head spinning freely,
The young man returned to fair Lina’s abode,
Determined to tell her how much he adored her,
But… he tripped and he fell… and lay flat in the road.’
Beppe and the others laugh and clap, Vico whoops, and Sofia bites her lip, chewing down a pleased smile. Reaching out, Beppe takes the ball from her, spins it again on his finger and says in a low, throaty voice:
‘Like a pile of discarded detritu
s he lay there,
And his tears turned the dust of the road into mud.
But Lina (the whore) – in flagrante – heard nothing
But the grunts of her lusty and tireless young stud.’
Everyone laughs. Exhilarated to find that she is able to contribute with more ease than she would have thought possible, Sofia finds another verse blossoming in her head, but before she can speak, Vico snaps his fingers. ‘Let’s have the ball, Beppe,’ he says, and Beppe obliges. Licking his lips, eyes glittering, Vico says:
‘Yes – splay-leggéd and gasping, our Lina heard nothing,
As she bounced up and down on her new lover’s bed.
Her small breasts were a-quiver and her buttocks a-tremble
And her sweet little cheeks flamed a bright cherry red.’
A bark of vulgar laughter breaks from several of the troupe. Lidia’s mouth drops open. ‘Vico!’ she says, sounding slightly breathless. ‘God, Vico – in front of a newcomer! Sofia, I’m so sorry – he’s a disgrace!’
Vico is grinning broadly.
Sofia looks from him to Beppe, who smiles and shrugs, shaking his head.
Agostino, however, is clearly trying to look stern, and equally clearly failing to achieve his aim. He wags an accusatory finger at everyone. ‘Well, Coraggiosi, on that appalling note I declare the scelta to be at an end. It’s time we went to sleep, I fear, before our improvisation, delightful though it has been, descends into irrecoverable puerility!’ He strides across to the stack of bedding. ‘Sofia,’ he says, turning back towards her as he goes, ‘you are truly welcomed as a member of the troupe! And your unexpected skill at improvising is remarkable. Well done!’ There is a soft patter of applause from the others, almost indistinguishable from the dying crackle of the fire. Agostino says, beckoning, ‘Cosima, Lidia, Sofia: as the ladies of the troupe, you take what you want first. Put yourselves down there near the fire. Keep yourselves warm.’
‘Erm…’ Sofia looks at Beppe as she slides down off the table. She says hesitantly, ‘May I just ask you…?’
Beppe inclines his head.
‘Who were those people you said I’d been travelling with? And Agostino talked about them too.’
‘Who? Oh, do you mean Genesius and Vitus?’
Sofia nods. ‘I don’t know who they are – I’ve never met anyone of that name.’
Beppe smiles. ‘They’re saints. St Genesius and St Vitus: the patron saints of actors and clowns.’
‘Oh.’
‘They keep an eye on us all, most of the time. And – well, they’ve looked after you pretty well, don’t you think?’
Sofia stares at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think they have.’
With a tired, tilted smile, Beppe takes himself off to the far side of the room.
Holding the blanket she has been handed by Lidia, Sofia sits down on the rush-strewn hearth near the dying fire and in the almost-darkness looks around wide-eyed at the various troupe members settling themselves for the night. They seem to have a routine, she thinks, seeing Federico hold a blanket out for Giovanni Battista, who winds it carefully around himself without looking at his companion, before being helped to lie down. Agostino, having crossed to where Cosima has settled herself, casts a last, contented look around the darkening room at his troupe before lying down next to her and draping an arm across her shoulders.
And Beppe… Sofia watches Beppe settle himself with unselfconscious ease; taking off his doublet, he folds it into a rough pillow; then, wrapping his own blanket around himself, he rubs his face with both palms and stretches. Curling like a cat, he closes his eyes.
A last red-glowing branch fizzles and flares before it sinks into the ashes; at its sudden hissing light, Beppe opens his eyes again. He catches sight of Sofia still looking at him and smiles again. Feeling the colour rise in her face, she pulls the blanket up around her neck. The corners of Beppe’s mouth remain upturned after he closes his eyes once more, head pillowed on one hand; Sofia watches him until the last ember cools and the light dies completely and she can see him no longer.
9
Sebastiano da Correggio looks down with distaste at where Angelo has sprawled across the table, his head on his arms. He is deeply asleep, his perfectly proportioned face oddly childlike in its utter relaxation, though the sight of it evokes no tender feelings in da Correggio.
‘For God’s sake, wake up, you bastard,’ he mutters. ‘Maddalena will be here any minute, and I want you gone.’
He shakes Angelo’s shoulder, but Angelo just murmurs, and tucks his head more comfortably into the crook of his elbow, showing no sign of waking. Rolling his eyes, and feeling his jaw tense with the effort of not hitting his companion, Sebastiano da Correggio glances at the far end of the table. The three empty glasses stand next to the bottles of the dark syrup. One glass has tipped over and lies on its side in a pooled puddle of grappa.
‘I hope to God you haven’t had too much,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t want to have to deal with a damned corpse.’ He stares down at Angelo for several seconds. ‘And it’s bloody cold in here now that damned fire’s gone out.’
He opens a wooden chest and pulls from it an intricately slashed and embroidered woollen doublet. Shrugging it on, he buckles a belt around his waist and tucks into this a short-bladed knife with a prettily jewelled handle; then, closing the lid of the chest, he sits down upon it. A pair of boots lies untidily next to the chest; these he pulls on, swearing under his breath as one catches around his heel. Standing, he stamps that foot hard down into the boot.
At the sound of the stamp, Angelo groans and shifts position, but he does not wake. Sebastiano da Correggio swears. He shakes Angelo again, with no effect. Grabbing a handful of Angelo’s hair, he turns the sleeping face up towards him. Angelo’s eyes open slightly, showing only a thin line of white, and his lips part, revealing even, white teeth and the gleam of his tongue. A thin line of spittle slides from the corner of his mouth.
‘Merda!’ Sebastiano says, dropping Angelo’s head so that it slumps back onto his arms. ‘You bastard, Bagnacavallo – she’ll be here any moment now and you’re cluttering the bloody place up like a fucking pile of laudanum-soaked laundry. Being one of the very first to realize the delightfully intoxicating potential of one of the newest and most effective relievers of pain in Italy looks set to make me a great deal of money, Bagnacavallo, once word starts to spread. If you swallow too much of it – greedy bastard that you are – and go and die on me, my reputation will be badly tarnished, so don’t bloody do it.’
He pauses a moment, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. He shakes his head. ‘Do you know what? This is the last time,’ he says. ‘You can get it for yourself if you want more – I have better things to do than play broker with you. You self-indulgent little pretty boy.’ He kicks the leg of Angelo’s chair irritably. ‘That’s the last time I believe your declarations of solvency. And you can fucking well pay me what you owe before your bloody troupe leaves the city or I’m having the bottles back. In fact…’
He grabs the grappa and all the unopened brown bottles, leaving just the single three-quarters-empty one, and strides out of the sala, climbing the stairs two at a time to the bedchamber. He will just have to bring Maddalena straight up here – the fire is dead and the sala is cold, after all, so she is unlikely to object. Putting the grappa and the laudanum down on a table near the bed, he takes another couple of small glasses from a shelf and places them next to the two bottles.
A knock at the front door echo-cracks into the silence of the house.
Crossing the room to the window, da Correggio cups his hands around his eyes and, face pressed to the glass, peers down to the street below: he can just make out the top of Maddalena’s silk-swathed head. He runs downstairs. Even as he opens the door, she slips inside, sliding her arms up around his neck and starting to kiss him before he can say a word. Her mouth is warm and inviting, and she presses herself against him, pulling him in close, murmuring in
coherently through her kisses. The heavy gold stitchery on her sleeves scratches against his neck.
‘I thought…’ she says, between kisses, ‘… I thought… you might not want to see me.’
‘Come upstairs.’
‘I’ve missed you… so much. Paolo has been so… mmm… boring and miserable… and I’ve longed to see you and…’
‘Come upstairs,’ Sebastiano da Correggio says again.
Maddalena pulls back from him. ‘How long do we have?’
A flash of irritation. ‘That’s rather up to you, is it not? How likely is it that the eminent Signor di Maccio will notice his wife’s absence this time?’
Maddalena shakes her head. ‘He won’t know I’ve gone. He was fast asleep when I left the house.’ She pauses. ‘He always sleeps soundly after —’ She sucks in a sharp breath and breaks off, catching her lip between her teeth.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 9