She returns his gaze without smiling.
‘Sofia is learning to play Colombina,’ Beppe says quietly. His dog scrambles to its feet. ‘She’s going to be taking over the role. As you’d have known if you’d been there when the decision was taken.’
‘Ah. That’s what this is all about, is it? I had wondered if I was interrupting a… a love tryst.’ Angelo raises an eyebrow, his eyes on Sofia. ‘But I see it was merely a rehearsal.’ He smiles. ‘How disappointing.’
‘Was there something you wanted?’ Beppe asks.
‘Yes, as it happens. I want to go through the sword-fight lazzo with you and Federico before we start rehearsing in earnest for Ferrara and Franceschina. I don’t think we were slick enough in Bologna.’
‘Do you not?’ Beppe says coldly. He pauses. ‘If you really want to, we can work on it a little later – when I’ve finished what I want to do with Sofia.’
At this, Angelo’s eyebrows lift again and he chews down a twisted smile. Sofia sees a muscle twitch in Beppe’s jaw, and feels her face grow hot.
‘Oh, well, in that case,’ Angelo says, ‘I’ll leave you to… how did you put it, Bianchi? To finish what you want to do with her. I should hate to feel I was intruding. Let me know when you’re ready to go through the lazzo.’
And, turning on his heel, he strides away towards the wagons; even with his back towards them it is obvious he is expecting his departure to be closely watched.
Sofia looks up at Beppe, who is staring after Angelo. She sees him mutter something half under his breath, but cannot hear his words; clicking his fingers at the dog, he says aloud, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
Sofia stands irresolute, fearful that this invitation does not include her.
‘Are you coming?’ Beppe says. He sees what looks like relief flood Sofia’s face as he speaks, and realizes she was afraid he was angry with her. Feeling the muscles tight in his jaw, he knows he is scowling, so, deliberately softening his expression, he relaxes his shoulders and tries to smile. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s get right away from the wagons for a while.’ Glancing back towards where Angelo is now in conversation with a grumpy-looking Vico, he begins to walk with Sofia along the line of trees away from the clearing.
When he sees she is almost trotting to keep up with him, he slows his pace.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘What for?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Oh, it’s… it’s just him.’ He jerks his chin back towards the wagons. ‘He always makes me… makes me want to hit something. Preferably his face.’
Angelo flicks a cursory glance over his shoulder and sees Sofia walking away beside Beppe; the latter is leaning slightly towards the girl, his hands raised, sketching out whatever it is he is saying. The anger Angelo feels at the thought of what appears to be a burgeoning intimacy between the pair of them pushes up into his throat like bile and he stuffs his hands roughly down into his breeches pockets.
His throat contracts as his fingers touch a small glass phial, tightly stoppered with a small cork.
He had quite forgotten it was there – had thought he had none left after he smashed what he had thought was his last bottle in the piazza. God, this must have been in his pocket some time. Pulling it out and holding it up to the light, he sees that perhaps half a finger’s depth remains in the little phial. Enough for one small dose. Staring at it for a moment, his heart thudding, Angelo decides to collect his doublet from the wagons and then take himself away for a short walk.
‘What’s the trouble?’ Vico is whittling a short length of wood; he looks up as Angelo approaches and his little knife gleams suddenly bright in the fitful sunshine.
‘No bloody business of yours.’
‘God, you can be so charming.’
‘And you are consistently crass, insensitive, opinionated and ignorant. Keep your intrusive fucking questions to yourself and leave me alone.’ His words hang ugly in the late-morning air and, wishing now that he had not spoken, Angelo collects his coat, then strides away from the wagons and off towards a line of scrubby woodland – in the opposite direction to that taken by Beppe and Sofia, ignoring the muttered comments from Vico behind him.
He’ll find a quiet place to make use of what little is left in the bottle. There is not much in there, though – thank God, he thinks, that he thought to suggest Franceschina as a possible venue to Agostino; he’ll be able to stock up – as long as Sebastiano is prepared to be flexible about payment.
Looking back over her shoulder, Sofia says, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I like Angelo. I don’t know why, but I don’t trust him.’
Beppe hears her words and is rocked by a drench of relief. I don’t think I like Angelo. I don’t know why, but I don’t trust him. Fighting a strong desire to kiss her, he says drily, ‘I’m not sure that any of us do.’
Sofia frowns. She says, ‘Lidia… Lidia says you used to know him… years ago.’
Turning quickly, he looks at her. ‘She said that, did she?’
Sofia nods.
‘When?’
‘Last night, while we were cooking.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘Just that. No more.’
Beppe hesitates for a moment, wondering whether or not to explain. The painful memories of everything that sprang from that early acquaintance are still keen – too keen. Even after so many years. Shaking his head, he says, ‘It was a long time ago. I’ll tell you about it some time.’
Ippo, the dog, racing over from foraging in a nearby thicket, jumps up at Beppe, putting dirty paws up against his thighs. He ruffles the creature’s ears, then, seeing the wet paw-prints on his breeches, raises a knee and shoves him away.
‘The rest of the troupe is so close-knit, and so happy together,’ Sofia says. ‘I don’t understand why you all put up with having someone like Angelo in the Coraggiosi.’
Beppe’s past dealings with Angelo blare in his head like a hunting horn. ‘Believe me,’ he says, ‘we’ve all had this discussion in one way or another so many times it’s become predictable. But whatever we all think, Angelo has three things which make us put up with how little we all care for him: his face, his name and his money.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Angelo da Bagnacavallo’ – Beppe feels the name slick sour across his tongue like phlegm – ‘is the only son of a nobleman. His father is a second cousin to the Duke of Ferrara and the family lives in a massive house not far from Bologna. So he tells everyone at every opportunity, he has never wanted to do anything other than act – though his father was always dead against it.’ Beppe hesitates, and the hunting horn blares again. ‘Apparently, though, a few years ago, sick to the back teeth with his son’s determination to join a troupe, the old man agreed that Angelo could be given a portion of his inheritance, so that he could try his luck as an actor. His father probably didn’t expect him to succeed. It was a fair sum, I’ve been told, and Angelo promptly signed it over to Agostino, in return for being kept on as inamorato no matter what. It was at a time when the troupe was almost on the point of having to disband because of lack of money, so Ago had no choice, really. The rest of us aren’t supposed to know about the arrangement, but we all do – Vico heard Ago talking to Cosima once, and he told everyone else, of course.’
Sofia says nothing.
Beppe scuffs the dry earth of the path with the heel of his boot as he speaks again. ‘We’re fortunate to have him, but —’
‘Fortunate? Why “fortunate”?’
Pulling in a long breath, Beppe sighs it out again. ‘It’s not just the money – every troupe needs an inamorato, doesn’t it? And the inamorati – both of them – need to be beautiful people if they’re to be credible. Cosima’s been with the troupe since Ago started it in seventy-five, and she’s so beautiful it doesn’t matter in the slightest that she’s getting a bit too old for the part. But until Angelo came along, the Coraggiosi’s inamorato was played by a man called Cristoforo Dominio
who… well, he wasn’t ugly, I suppose, but he was nothing like our friend back there. And… Angelo’s actually not a bad actor, though I hate to admit it.’
‘What happened to him? To Cristoforo?’
Beppe pulls a wry face and shrugs. ‘He took one look at Angelo, the day Angelo came to plead with Agostino to be taken on as one of the Coraggiosi, and decided that he couldn’t compete. Well, I suppose you would, wouldn’t you? He left us within days of Angelo’s joining the troupe, even though Ago had promised to keep him on and find him alternative parts to play. And I suppose it has to be said that the crowds have been flocking to look at our inamorato’s flawless features ever since.’ Beppe raises an eyebrow. ‘What with how he looks, and the fact that the word is out that he comes from a family of some standing, he’s undoubtedly raised the profile of the troupe. He’s put us almost on a level with the Gelosi.’
Sofia still looks puzzled.
Beppe says, ‘But we all still think he’s a fly-bitten bastard.’
‘I’m glad it’s not just me that doesn’t like him.’
‘No, it’s not. But there’s a lot more to it – I’ll tell you another time. Not today.’ He forces the memories back into a dark corner, shuts the door on them, and summons a smile for Sofia. ‘It’s so beautiful out here – I don’t want to spoil it talking about Angelo.’
They walk together along the sun-freckled path for several moments without speaking, the only sounds the scuffing of their footsteps in the dusty leaf litter and the spiralling cries of high, distant buzzards. The wooded hills, crisp with gold-, red- and green-leaved trees, soar up steeply to the north, while long feathers of cloud stretch out across the sky, pale and thin, fanning out and wisping to nothing in the light wind. As it turns to the right before it swings around and heads back towards where the wagons are parked, the path narrows – it is only just wide enough here now for the two to walk side by side – and on almost every step Sofia’s skirts are snagging on twigs and thorns in the undergrowth and flapping about Beppe’s legs.
Their hands brush together as their arms swing.
Once… twice… three times they touch.
Reaching out, Beppe threads his fingers through Sofia’s. As they walk on down the path, he runs his thumb back and forth along the soft skin of the side of her hand, aware that Sofia is glancing repeatedly sideways to look at where their fingers are now clasped. She seems to sense his gaze and looks up at him, and the wide-eyed anticipation in her face sends a sharp shiver of longing down into his belly. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kisses her knuckles, fighting a growing wish to snatch her up into his arms. He is startled by the intensity of the moment, shocked by how very much he wants her – but he won’t do it. He won’t rush her. He will make himself wait – even though he is not sure why. Something about Sofia is staying his hand – something charming and vulnerable. This, he thinks, flicking a sideways glance at her and trying to ignore his body’s protestations, this is something to treasure. If he moves too quickly, it might all spoil and he does not think he could bear that. She has moved in a little closer to him, and has tightened her grip. They walk on together, back round towards the wagons again, and the dog bounds ahead of them, thoughtlessly joyous, tongue lolling, plumed tail up high like a flag.
12
Later that afternoon
Agostino spends a few moments scraping a thick line in the earth with a stick to create the rough outline of a stage. ‘Beppe, fetch a couple of the poles from under the yellow cart, will you?’ he calls. ‘Sofia, cara, imagine they’re what would be the back hangings. Audience is out that way.’ He points. Vico, who is standing in what would be the audience, pulls a face at Sofia and bows.
Nodding at Agostino, Sofia pokes her tongue out at Vico.
Beppe lays two long poles along one of the edges Agostino has drawn in the dust, then, as he goes to step across them, makes everyone laugh by appearing to smack straight into an invisible wall, reeling backwards and rubbing his head, quickly becoming confused by his inability to move forwards. Frowning in anxious consternation, he ‘feels’ his way along the back edge of the ‘stage’, palming hand over hand along the non-existent wall until he finds a narrow ‘gap’, which he then proceeds to squeeze through, sucking in his stomach, pulling himself up onto the tips of his toes and holding his breath extravagantly, puffing it out again in exaggerated relief once he has eased his way ‘through’ onto the stage area.
Agostino grins at him for a second, shaking his head as though in disbelief, then he snaps his fingers and points over to the far side of the stage. ‘Just wait over there, will you, you big idiot? I want to start from canovaccio seven, and you need to be in hiding for that one, don’t you?’
Beppe crosses to the far side of the stage and crouches like a frog near the front, pulling a large red cloth over himself, fashioning a small peephole from folds of the fabric.
Agostino continues. ‘Sofia, cara, it’s at this point that you need to tell Federico all about Cosima being in love with Angelo – and make it clear to him that he is not going to be able to marry her… remember?’
Sofia nods again.
‘Remember: voice from down here.’ He pats his belly. Bending slightly, he points to a thicket some fifty yards away. ‘Speak to the trees over there, look.’
Another nod.
‘Right. Federico, are you ready?’
‘Aye, I am.’
‘Good.’ Agostino snaps his fingers and Sofia tilts at the waist and slightly points the toe of her right foot. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she says stoutly, hands on hips, chin tilted upwards. ‘But I know it for certain. She’s in love with Signor Oratio, and there’s nothing you or I or anyone else can do about it.’ She shakes her head. ‘She won’t marry you. Whatever you say to her.’
‘Pah! You’re nothing but a chit of a girl and don’t know your arse from your elbow,’ Federico says, waving a dismissive arm in her direction.
‘A bit more volume, now, Sofia, cara,’ Agostino hisses.
Sofia flicks him a glance and sucking in her belly muscles, pushes her voice a little harder. ‘Hmm. Forgive me if I’m being impolite, signore, but I think you’ll find that I’m very well acquainted with both my arse and my elbow, and I know that they are as unlike to be joined in matrimony as are your good self and my mistress.’
‘Good, good, good!’ Agostino mutters from the side of the stage. ‘Better. Just what I wanted. Marvellous!’
As Federico begins to splutter, a loud sneeze is heard from Beppe’s hiding place. Federico stops dead. ‘What was that? WHO was that?’
And, as Beppe creeps tentatively out from under his cloth, trembling extravagantly, Federico begins to harangue him, hurling insults at him and shaking his fist. ‘You? Here? Again! How dare you! It’s all your fault, you blithering idiot,’ he shouts, ‘and if you’re not out of my sight in the next couple of seconds, I’m going to —’
‘Creep away now, Sofia,’ hisses Agostino, and Sofia tiptoes backwards, step by careful step, as Beppe, arms over his head in counterfeit terror, abandons the red cloth and scuttles away in the opposite direction.
‘Lovely!’ Agostino calls out, and everyone stops. Cosima, who has been sitting on an upturned barrel, claps softly, and Lidia gives Sofia a quick hug. Giovanni Battista bustles up and pats her on the back, and Federico, from his position on the ‘stage’, raises his hands above his head and claps twice, grinning broadly. Sofia’s face glows with pleased pride and she bites down a smile so wide she can feel it stretching her cheeks.
Angelo, who has been watching the rehearsal from the back steps of the smallest wagon, says nothing. Glancing across at him, Sofia meets his gaze for a moment and, at the expression on his face, her face burns and her smile fades. He raises an eyebrow, then looks away.
‘Well done,’ Beppe says quietly, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers. She turns to him. ‘That was perfect,’ he says. ‘You remembered everything. ‘Now we have to work on the reconciliation between me and you �
� between Arlecchino and Colombina – that’s the last bit Ago wanted to do today.’
Sofia swallows uncomfortably. ‘Oh no – that’s the piece I messed up earlier.’
‘God, we all mess things up a thousand times before we get them right. It’s just how it is.’
‘Beppe, Sofia, can I have you both, please?’ Agostino calls. ‘Cosima, Lidia and the rest of you, take a break. Cosima, cara, could you possibly find me something to drink?’
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 13