The others clap and Lidia leans across and gives Sofia a quick kiss on the cheek. Beppe’s arm tightens around her.
‘Was it as terrifying as you had expected?’ Cosima says, and her face is full of affectionate pride.
Sofia bites her lip, smiling. She nods and everyone laughs.
‘But you rose to the occasion, like a consummate professional, and conquered your fears!’ Agostino proclaims. ‘I’d like to propose a toast, firstly to Sofia – the newest and certainly the bravest member of the Coraggiosi – in fact a true coraggiosa herself! And then to our dear and absent friend, Niccolò Zanetti, for bringing this little girl to us in the first place.’ He raises his cup, and everyone follows suit.
‘How about a song?’ Vico suggests.
There is a murmur of agreement.
Scrambling out from his place at the table, Vico disappears, returning a moment later with his guitar. He spends a few seconds fiddling with the tuning pegs and picking at the strings, then pats the rounded end of the instrument and looks enquiringly around the gathering. ‘Well? Any suggestions?’
‘How about “I Didn’t Dare Say It”?’ Federico suggests. ‘Or that one about banking?’
‘Banking?’ Beppe asks, frowning.
‘“Hor Vendut’ho la Speranza”, I think it’s called,’ Federico says. ‘You know – where the man says he’s invested heavily in the hope of being loved, but his investment has gone down the drain.’
Beppe shrugs. ‘Don’t know that one.’
‘Oh no, that sounds far too miserable for such a joyous occasion,’ Agostino says. ‘Vico, let’s have “I Didn’t Dare Say It” and we can all enjoy some good honest cuckoldry.’
Everyone laughs.
Vico picks at the strings of his guitar and, in his clear, carrying tenor voice, starts to sing. Lidia soon joins him. The song is tuneful, easy to pick up and delightfully rude, and before long the rest of the troupe – and half a dozen passers-by who have heard the celebration and come to share in it – are joining in the refrain.
‘Where are you all staying tonight?’ somebody booms as the song draws to a close and a sustained bout of applause breaks out. Sofia turns and sees a big, cheerful man with his arm around a woman not much smaller than he is.
‘Here in the wagons, signore,’ Agostino says, waving his cup of ale in the vague direction of the cluster of carts behind him.
‘But I have a room you can use! Can’t have such extraordinary artists camping out in their carts! Not in our town – it would be a disgrace!’
‘We do it all the time, signore,’ Cosima says, smiling her wide, slow smile and looking, Sofia thinks now, more beautiful than ever in the low and flickering candlelight. ‘We think nothing of it. And besides, we need to be here to keep an eye on our belongings.’
‘All of you? Surely not.’
Agostino considers. ‘No, now you mention it, perhaps not all. Perhaps some of us could take you up on your kind offer. In fact,’ he says, his frown breaking into a wide smile, ‘I think it’s fair to say that you are generosity personified!’
‘I can fit – oh, say, four of you comfortably in my downstairs chamber.’
Agostino looks around the troupe. ‘Sofia, you deserve a warm night. And you, Cosima, cara, and Lidia. Giovanni Battista, as our elder statesman, go too, and try to keep the girls under control.’
Giovanni Battista gets to his feet and bows solemnly to Agostino, his face set in an expression of mock determination. ‘I shall, signore,’ he says in a ringing voice, ‘do my very best – or shall perish in the attempt!’
A spatter of laughter.
Sofia turns to Beppe, having no wish to be parted from him. But he squeezes her hand and says quietly into her ear, ‘Go and get a good night’s sleep, lovely girl. Make the most of it. We’ll… find a quiet corner to be alone tomorrow.’
16
The little hill town of Montalbano
‘Just the two rooms I have free this evening, my friends,’ the ale-man says, jerking his head towards the stairs. ‘And you’re welcome to both of them. Don’t worry, you’ll all fit in – all my beds are wide – well known for their generous width in and around Montalbano, I think you’ll find. There’s two beds in the bigger of the rooms. And I have blankets a-plenty, so you certainly won’t be cold. It’s indeed a pleasure to see you all again, signori and signore, if I may say so. It must be several years since…’
‘It’s a pleasure to be here. We’re all most grateful, signore – and of course particularly delighted to hear about the width of the beds – which, I have to tell you, are legendary across Emilia-Romagna,’ Agostino says, inclining his head in decorous thanks. Vico doubles over, coughing to hide the laughter he cannot prevent, and Lidia kicks him in the leg. Sofia, though, is not laughing. She has caught Beppe’s eye and, at his quick smile, she is thinking of the ‘quiet corner’ he said he would try to find for the two of them and of what they might do there. Not one word of Agostino’s conversation with the ale-man has she taken in.
The little tavern is crowded and noisy, and a pleasing savoury smell – some sort of stew, Sofia presumes now – hangs in the air above the tangle of conversations, luckily stronger than the acrid odour from the various animals in the room. Several chickens are pecking hopefully at fallen food on the rush-strewn floor, a couple of cats have perched on top of a crumbling credenza, their paws neatly tucked in under their chests, and, over by the wide hearthstone, a large and very hairy black pig lies flat, its eyes closed, the only sign of life the rise and fall of its belly and the occasional twitch of a sharp-toed trotter.
Many heads turn and watch as the Coraggiosi cross the room together and seat themselves at one end of a long table near the fire. Beppe’s dog sniffs briefly at the pig, but backs away hurriedly when it raises its huge head from the floor and opens a baleful little eye to glare at the intruder.
The troupe is loud in its enjoyment of the food, the ale, the warmth, the company, and, within minutes, the attention of everyone in the room has focused itself upon the Coraggiosi’s table, and other conversations have died to a mutter. Sofia wonders what these hill-dwellers must think of their exuberant, brightly coloured, voluble visitors. She can imagine what she would have thought of them herself, had she been sitting here in this room, watching them – can imagine the curious envy that would have filled her, looking at such high-spirited camaraderie. She smiles like a cream-fed cat to think that she is now a part of it, that she belongs to them, that she is now an actor, that she has been soundly kissed by the anarchic and irresistible Arlecchino – and that he, Beppe, has promised her that the two of them will spend some time alone together this very night. Squashed in between Beppe and Giovanni Battista at the table, Sofia looks sideways at him as he throws back his head and laughs at a joke of Vico’s; a hot little thread wriggles down into her belly at the thought of what the night might hold.
Beppe catches her eye. Smiling, he grips her thigh under the table and the hot thread tugs. She lays a hand over his, her fingers falling into the gaps between his and his grip tightens for a second.
‘Giovanni Battista, this was a tremendous suggestion of yours. I, for one, cannot think of a more congenial place to spend our well-earned days of rest,’ Agostino says, his booming voice interrupting Sofia and Beppe’s moment of intimacy. Giovanni Battista smiles and nods as he takes a long draught of ale.
Vico leans across the table and says, ‘Beppe, how do you fancy doing a bit of nonsense to earn a few extra baiocchi?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know… we could do the juggling lazzo from The Other Doctor – you know, where you juggle and I keep pinching one or other of the bits and pieces you’re juggling with.’
Beppe’s gaze shifts from Vico to Sofia. His raised eyebrow is eloquent: Are you happy if I do? She nods and smiles. Beppe says to Vico, ‘Do you have anything to juggle with? The bag of balls is out in the wagon and I can’t be bothered to —’
‘Bound to be someth
ing. Wait a moment.’ Glancing around the room and jumping up from his seat, Vico reaches up to the shelf above the fire and takes down an age-shining knot of wood the size of a child’s fist and a tin cup. Beppe picks a couple of fat plums from a bowl and lifts a bread roll from a nearby dish. ‘Shall we announce it, or just start?’ he says.
‘Oh, just start, I think, don’t you?’
Beppe runs a covert hand along Sofia’s thigh below the table before getting to his feet and edging out to stand in an empty space on the tavern floor. Sofia touches his fingers as he goes. Vico passes Beppe the wood and the cup, and Beppe begins to flip everything up into the air and catch it again deftly.
The room falls silent.
Beppe sends the objects up one by one, then in pairs, flips one higher than the rest, passes one behind his back. Vico, meanwhile, having seated himself cross-legged on the table nearby, now swings his legs around and stands. Affecting to look unconcerned, and whistling softly between his teeth, he edges nearer and nearer to where Beppe is standing, casting deliberately shifty glances in his friend’s direction; then, so swiftly that a blink might have hidden his movement, he darts out a hand and snatches one of the plums from the whirling circle.
An old man claps loudly, and several other drinkers murmur their admiration. Somebody whistles.
Beppe manages to continue juggling with the rest of the objects, though with a wild look of aggrieved annoyance on his face – as though it’s impossible for him to stop, despite Vico’s pilfering of his plum; as though the things are sailing through the air of their own volition. He chatters nonsensically at Vico, who now holds the plum up before a wide-open mouth, as if about to bite into it; he admonishes Vico, gesturing with jerks of his head to ask for the return of his fruit. Vico refuses, plum still held up ready.
The tavern drinkers are laughing now.
Beppe demands again more loudly, and this time Vico shrugs and, turning away, flips the plum over his shoulder back to Beppe, who incorporates it immediately into the cascade of thrown objects, with a nod of smug satisfaction.
More laughter and a spatter of applause. A couple of drinkers bang their mugs on the table.
‘He’s very clever, is he not?’
Sofia starts as Angelo seats himself in the space next to her on the bench, vacated by Beppe.
‘Yes, he is,’ she answers politely, inwardly cursing as she feels her colour rise. She flicks a glance at him before turning once more to watch the performers.
‘You seem to have been spending a great deal of time with him recently.’
Sofia glances sideways at Angelo again. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. But then you know that Beppe’s been teaching me what I need to know for playing Colombina,’ she says, uncomfortably aware of the way in which Angelo’s gaze is continually flicking downwards to the upper edge of her bodice.
‘Of course.’
A moment’s heavy silence.
Angelo speaks again. ‘And much of that teaching has had to take place in private, in the backs of wagons, so I understand.’
Sofia grits her teeth and says nothing. Her heart is beating faster.
‘It’s probably not the best idea to get too close to him.’ Angelo runs the tip of his middle finger along Sofia’s wrist and down the back of her hand.
She snatches her arm away, fully intending to ignore this remark, but a little cold wire of anxious curiosity winds itself around her until she cannot bear to remain silent. ‘Why do you say that?’
Angelo twitches down an unpleasantly satisfied smile. ‘Ah, well, I shouldn’t wish to affect your work with such an effective… teacher… but…’ He tails off.
‘But what? What are you trying to say?’
Raising both hands, palms forward, as though to pacify her, Angelo says, ‘Oh, just that it has to be said that one cannot ever fully escape one’s parentage, and —’
‘Parentage? What do you mean?’ Sofia stares at Angelo. His expression is calculating, and his eyes are unnerving her. Close to like this, the whites seem reddened and the pupils huge – he looks ill, she thinks now. His breath, too, is stale and sour, and his hands, still raised, are trembling slightly.
‘Has he not told you?’ Angelo says.
‘What? Told me what?’
A volley of applause from the watching drinkers drowns Angelo’s muttered reply. As Vico and Beppe come back to sit once more with the troupe, Angelo stands up, wincing as he does so. Bending towards Sofia, he says softly into her ear, ‘I knew his father, years ago. It was not an acquaintance I valued – Signor Bianchi was not an admirable man. I just think you might one day come to regret your choice, that’s all.’ He pauses. ‘If you ever do – regret it, that is – let me know, won’t you? I wouldn’t hold it against you.’
Open-mouthed, Sofia stares at him. Angelo raises an eyebrow; then, edging his way sideways between the jumble of tables, he leaves through the door to the upstairs rooms. Sofia cannot tear her eyes from where he has vanished.
Beppe sits back down on the bench seat next to her. Reaching out, he picks up a large cup of ale and takes a long draught. ‘What did you think?’ he says, smiling and taking her hand under the table. ‘A bit of nonsense, as Vico said, don’t you think?’
Sofia has no idea what to say.
‘What? What is it?’ Beppe is frowning, clearly aware of the change in her demeanour. ‘What’s happened?’
Sofia looks back towards the tavern door, unsure what to say or do. She feels the pressure of Beppe’s fingers on hers, sees the newly anxious look in his eyes. ‘I… er… it was… it was Angelo. He…’
Beppe’s expression darkens. ‘What’s he said?’
‘I don’t really know… but…’
Beppe stands. ‘Come with me.’
He leads her out of the tavern, out through the side door, past the big barn where the horses have been stabled and on into the sudden silence of a steep lane which leads away from the town up into the heavily wooded hills beyond. The night air is chill on Sofia’s face and the road is treacherous with loose stones which turn and scuff under their shoes as they walk. A fox barks into the stillness. Turning to look at her, Beppe stands with both her hands enfolded within his own. ‘Now: what has he said that’s so upset you?’
‘Something about you – about your father… He said he knew him. Years ago.’
Beppe says nothing.
‘I didn’t know what he meant by it.’
Staring up into the branches of the nearest tree, Beppe mutters, ‘God, he must be very drunk to bring that up.’
‘Please, Beppe, what is it? What was he talking about?’
Beppe lets go of Sofia’s hands and runs his fingers up into his hair. He stands there for several seconds, elbows winged wide; then, suddenly dropping his gaze to his boots, he folds his arms over his head for a moment, each hand holding the opposite elbow. The gesture gives him the look of a frightened little boy, and Sofia is struck by a fierce desire to hug him. But she stands still and waits.
After several endless seconds, Beppe straightens and starts to speak in a flat voice quite unlike his own. ‘My father used to work in the kitchens in the great house owned by Angelo’s family. The Castello dei Fiori, a few miles outside Bologna. He and I lived in a couple of rooms on the estate with some of the other kitchen staff. It was just the two of us – my mother died when I was little. Angelo and I were not far off the same age and – God, it’s hard to believe now – we liked each other. We spent most days together. We’d fish in the streams, set traps for rabbits, try to teach the estate dogs tricks, practise tumbling… things like that.’ He looks up at her for a moment. ‘Angelo’s father knew nothing about our friendship, mind. He’d have forbidden it if he had – wouldn’t have wanted the son of the second cousin of the Duke of Ferrara messing about with the… the unwashed offspring of a widowed kitchen drudge.’
Sofia stares, saying nothing.
Several long seconds pass.
‘My father drank pretty heavily. He’d al
ways been partial to his ale, but it got much worse when my mother died. He’d get into easy rages when he had had a few too many, and he was a big, heavy man. I became used to dodging out of the reach of his fists. He never meant anything by it, but after he broke my nose one time, I decided it was safer just to keep out of his way when he was in his cups. It eventually reached the point where Papa was sodden with ale more often than not. I don’t know how he managed to keep his job, to be honest.’
He pauses again, and examines his hands for a moment. He is breathing deeply with long, slow, measured breaths. He looks up at her. ‘Angelo and I were in the kitchens one afternoon. I was about twelve, he a year or so older. We’d been out all day and were hungry and I had suggested that we try to wheedle some food out of my father rather than wait until the evening meal. He would often find stuff for us. We were lurking in a corner together, laughing at nothing, waiting for him to cut us some slices from a leg of ham, when a fight broke out. This other man – no one I knew – said something derogatory about Papa’s drinking – as well he might have done, to be honest – and Papa swung round and lashed out at him. Caught him hard on the jaw. It must have hurt – he staggered backwards, but stayed on his feet. And, even as Angelo and I stood there and watched, he hit back. He was clearly a capable fighter – far better than Papa. Papa tried to keep his end up, but he was very drunk and before long the other man was wasting him. It was awful. Everyone in the kitchen was shouting and yelling, spurring the fight on, goading them both as if it was a bloody cock-fight or something – and then the other man pulled a knife.’
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 17