The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Beppe’s mouth opens wider and wider as she speaks, and his hands illustrate the shock his mask conceals. ‘But… but… that’s t-t-terrible!’ he stutters. ‘In a d-ditch! Like a… like a… dead dog? Or a… a… pile of yesterday’s leftover pasta?’

  Laughter from the audience. Beppe starts to stagger about the stage, drunk with shock, and Sofia trots after him, hands clasped, eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know you’d be so upset to hear about it… I always thought you didn’t like him very much.’

  Beppe stops suddenly and straightens. Shaking his head and pushing his hands down into his breeches pockets, he shrugs and says in a much stronger, more cheerful voice, ‘I don’t. Can’t stand him, the stupid old fool – but he’s my master! I have to be sad. It’s… it’s obligatory.’ And he reverts to the shocked staggering.

  The laughter from the audience is louder now. Turning to them, Beppe shrugs again, lifting his shoulders far higher this time, and the corners of his mouth turn down. Somebody catcalls.

  Sofia, meanwhile, nods, pulls a small square of embroidered linen from her sleeve, wipes her eyes delicately and blows her nose.

  The show is nearly over. Sebastiano is contemplating slipping out just before the end, to ensure he can find Angelo and the little creature with the curly hair as soon as she emerges. But no, he now reasons with himself, he should stay, as he wants to make sure she sees him clapping enthusiastically. He is intending to use his enjoyment of the show as his ostensible reason for opening a conversation with her, and that gambit would appear decidedly unconvincing were he not to be seen applauding with the rest of the audience. He’ll make sure she catches sight of him before she leaves the stage. He will need, too, to be seen by the rest of the guests: the illusion of him as magnanimous host must be maintained through to the end of the evening.

  Marco da Correggio, from his seat near the back of the great chamber, glances at his dapper little neighbour in the fancy doublet, then returns his gaze to the front of the room, and the back of his cousin’s head. He can feel the letter, crisp-cornered and bulky in his pocket. Not long now.

  ‘Mind your face,’ Beppe says quietly as Sofia struggles to unfasten and take off the grey dress in the cramped space behind the stage. ‘Don’t smudge anything. We’re nearly there – and you’ve done so well! You’ve been wonderful.’ He tilts her chin upwards with the tip of one finger and kisses her mouth. ‘Quickly, get this on. We’ll hang the dress here, look.’ Beppe pushes a heavy wooden hanger into the bodice of the grey dress and hooks it onto a loop of rope. ‘Here.’

  Standing in front of her in his hose, he holds out the diamond-patched breeches he has just taken off. They are still warm with the heat from his body as Sofia steps into them. Her fingers are trembling as she pushes her chemise down inside the breeches and pulls in the drawstrings at the waist as tightly as they will go. Even drawn in snugly, though, and with the bulk of the chemise padding them out, the breeches hang on her hips. ‘I look like a sausage,’ she mutters, scowling down at her rounded belly and hips.

  Behind his black mask, Beppe is grinning. ‘That’s just what I was thinking myself,’ he says. ‘A very appealing sausage, though.’ Holding out his jacket, he gives it a little shake. ‘Quick – we’re back on stage in a few seconds, and I’ve got to get this bloody dress on.’

  Sofia pushes her arms down into the jacket sleeves, and begins to fasten it as Beppe takes an identical – if considerably larger – version of the grey dress from another hanger. Scrambling into it, he tugs the front fastening laces tight and knots them. He pulls the black woollen hat from his head and hands it to Sofia who winds her unruly curls into a knot and crams the hat onto the back of her head.

  ‘Here!’ Vico is standing at the bottom of the backstage steps. ‘You’ve forgotten this.’ He is holding a black half-mask on a stick.

  Sofia smiles her thanks, crouches down and takes the mask from him.

  Beppe, meanwhile, is adjusting a black curly wig, pushing wisps of his own hair up and under the front edges. Seeing Sofia biting down a smile, he puts a hand to his cheek and simpers at her, bobbing down into an arch curtsy. Sofia climbs up onto a wooden crate, reaches out and – as Beppe has just done to her – tips his face upwards with her forefinger under his chin. ‘Oh, you do look pretty, signorina,’ she says, kissing him and sniggering.

  ‘Stop it, you two – and get on that bloody stage,’ hisses Vico from below.

  Raising a hand in acknowledgement, Beppe scoops an arm around Sofia and lifts her off the crate. Grabbing a handful of one of her chemise-padded buttocks for a second and grinning at her smothered squeal, he then jerks his head towards the gap in the backcloth. ‘Come on – last scene.’

  The players bow and the applause rises up, filling the big banqueting chamber with a noise that sounds to Sofia like roaring flames. Holding hands, they all bow yet again, and the noise goes on, spreading up towards the painted ceiling, filling Sofia’s ears. She cannot stop smiling – she’s succeeded. She has performed again, in this most prestigious of venues, without any major mishap, and the audience seem to have enjoyed what she has done. She feels Beppe’s grip on her right hand tightening and looks around at him. His tilted smile is so wide that his mask is being pushed off-centre. ‘You did it again,’ he whispers. ‘Well done! We’ll be able to call you a seasoned professional soon.’

  Looking back at the cheering audience, Sofia sees their extravagantly doubleted host, on his feet, his clapping hands raised to head-height. His gaze seems to be fixed upon her.

  The Coraggiosi push one by one through the backcloth, then jostle down off the back of the stage, down the steps and out to the back of the chamber, where they are met by a dozen or more people, all eager to talk to them, to share their happiness, to be a part of the magic. Thank you, all of you – that was wonderful!… When is your next show? I want to make sure I’m there… Is it dreadfully hot behind those masks?… How did you do the scene with the ghost? I loved that…

  Sofia is giddy with it, exhausted, ecstatic. She is hot and tired, and the chalk and pearl on her face is now itching so badly she wants to scrub it away, but it feels to her now – even more than it did after her very first performance – as though some unknown force in her is elbowing past the fatigue and the discomfort. She could run and jump and sing and laugh, she thinks. In fact, she is almost sure she could manage one of Beppe’s somersaults.

  He is beside her, mask now pushed up onto the top of his head, displacing the ridiculous wig. Hugging her, he swings her around, lifting her feet a little off the floor. She looks up at him, her smile stretched wide, her eyes shining; lowering his head to hers, he reaches forward to kiss her.

  ‘I must congratulate you,’ says a voice behind them, and Sofia’s head snaps around to see who has spoken. Sebastiano da Correggio is holding out a hand towards her. ‘Your performance was quite delightful, signorina,’ he says, and Sofia smiles. ‘Quite the most striking part of the evening for me.’

  ‘You’re very kind, signore,’ she says, feeling her face burn.

  ‘No, not at all. Not kind at all. Merely expressing a heartfelt opinion.’

  Sofia begins to protest, trying to explain that her part in the play was merely a small fraction of the whole, but Signor da Correggio is having none of it. ‘My dear signorina, as your host for the evening, I believe it’s entirely acceptable for me to be outrageously partisan in my appreciation of the entertainment I’ve just witnessed. I think you were the best thing in the show – certainly quite the prettiest – and I’m happy to say so to anyone who asks.’

  Federico and Giovanni Battista edge past, carrying one of the long wooden poles between them. Federico gives her and Beppe a meaningful look and jerks his head towards the stage.

  Sofia glances back at him. ‘Thank you, signore, you’re very kind, but if you will excuse me, I must help pack away.’ She gestures to where everything is already being taken to pieces. ‘The dismantling has started – we always do the
dismantling together… all of us.’ As she takes Beppe’s hand, she sees a shadow cross the signore’s face, but his expression clears quickly.

  ‘Of course,’ he says with a brief bow. ‘But I should like you to drink with me later.’

  Sofia does not reply, but smiles briefly; she hopes the slight twitch of her head she feels herself make did not look too much like a nod.

  That was not her intention.

  ‘Here, Beppe!’ Vico calls from under the stage, holding up a coil of rope. ‘Catch this, will you?’

  ‘Just piss off, Marco.’ Sebastiano flicks a dismissive glance at the letter in his hand, then looks back at his cousin.

  ‘You need to listen to me, Sebastiano.’

  ‘No. No I don’t. You need to listen to me. You owe me one hundred scudi. I don’t care what is in this pathetic scrawl of a letter – I don’t give a two-scudi shit if you send it to da Budrio this week, next year or tomorrow morning. If you do, I shall merely refute the charges and point out to the signore that they have been pressed by someone who is wilfully withholding from me a considerable sum of money owed.’

  ‘The women concerned will bear witness…’

  Sebastiano laughs, hoping that the cold thread of terror that has flashed over his scalp at the thought that this might in fact be the case will not show in his expression. ‘You really think they would? You really think they would condemn themselves like that – just to revenge themselves on me? Are you mad?’

  Marco does not reply.

  Turning his back on his cousin, Sebastiano screws the letter into a ball, throws it onto the floor and strides away without looking back. He hears a soft sound of rustling paper as he goes, and is sure that Marco has picked the paper back up and is trying to smooth it out again.

  In an unlit corner of the smaller banqueting hall, Paolo di Maccio is holding his wife’s wrist in one bony hand. ‘Is what he says true, Maddalena? You are with child?’

  She does not reply.

  Di Maccio’s gaze drops to her belly. ‘Dear God. How could I not have seen?’ he mutters. Looking back at her, he says in a voice constricted with anger, ‘You hardly need to confirm it, but is it really true that it is his? Is this da Correggio’s child?’

  Maddalena again says nothing, but the slight lift of her shoulders is enough of a reply for her husband. His face whitens. ‘God in heaven, have you any idea what you have done? That man could ruin us completely.’

  In the smaller of the two banqueting halls, the remains of a sumptuous meal lie scattered across an expanse of linen-draped table. Four many-branched candlesticks have dribbled yellowish wax onto the cloth, and these fast-hardening spatters lie untidily amongst the debris of torn bread, part-empty bowls of fruit and sweetmeats and glittering glasses. The earlier plates of roasted capon with orange sauce, of fresh egg pasta stuffed with pumpkin and flavoured with sage and of crisp-skinned grilled bream have long since been collected and taken away by the dozen or so castle servants.

  The wine is still flowing freely and the Coraggiosi, along with the dozen or so other guests, have eaten well. ‘Probably one of the best meals we’ve ever been offered after a performance,’ Agostino says, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. Getting to his feet and lifting his glass, he turns to Sebastiano da Correggio, who is sitting at the head of the table. ‘Signore, this has all been entirely delicious. An extraordinary meal! You have far, far exceeded your remit as our highly esteemed host, and we are all enormously grateful, I promise you, every one of us – are we not, Coraggiosi?’

  A murmur of heartfelt agreement and a patter of applause buzz around the table.

  Sofia is truly exhausted. The euphoria she felt immediately after the end of the show has evaporated and she now just feels heavy and woolly-headed with the wine she has drunk; her eyes are itching and the skin on her face – scrubbed clean now of the chalk and the pearl – is dry and tight. She leans wearily against Beppe, who puts an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘We can go to bed soon,’ he says, and Sofia smiles up at him.

  ‘Together?’

  Beppe says quietly, ‘Yes. Why not? The others are all taking up the offer of the two big castle rooms which have been decked out for us, so that’ll leave the wagons empty. Might you prefer to…?’ He does not complete the question, but Sofia nods.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, smiling. ‘I think I might.’

  ‘Come on then – shall we go now? I think it’s late enough for us not to look rude if we leave.’

  Beppe and Sofia both make as though to stand, but before they have even pushed back their chairs, Angelo, who has just come back into the room, edges behind several chairs and says quietly into Beppe’s ear, ‘You need to go out and see to your dog.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? What’s the matter?’

  Angelo flicks a glance up the table towards where Sebastiano is sitting. Sebastiano is watching him. He nods once, then says, ‘I just went for a piss a few moments ago, nipped out to fetch something from the wagons and found several of the servants out there. The dog must have got loose and gone after a rat or something, they said – he has quite a cut on his leg.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Beppe is on his feet. Sofia stands too.

  ‘They said they’d take him into the kitchens…’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Sofia says. Beppe nods, but as they turn to leave the room, Agostino calls down the table, hand raised. ‘Sofia! Wait a moment – don’t go! Cara, come here and talk to Signor da Correggio before we all go off to bed. He says he’s been waiting all evening to have a chance to tell you how much he enjoyed your performance. I’ve just told him that you’ve only ever been on a stage a couple of times, and he says he is struggling to believe me. Come and tell him all about it!’

  Sofia’s heart lurches, and she looks at Beppe, who shrugs.

  ‘Go and talk to him. I’ll find Ippo,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring him back up here, and then we can go to the wagon.’

  Sofia nods. Scraping back her chair, she sidles along behind the other members of the troupe, up towards the head of the table. Signor da Correggio stands as she approaches, and snaps his fingers to one of the servants, who immediately hurries over with an extra chair: a delicately carved wooden folding stool. Da Correggio flaps it open and places it immediately next to his own seat.

  ‘Signorina, come and sit,’ he says, patting the stool.

  Sofia follows instructions.

  Leaning towards her, Signor da Correggio puts an arm around her shoulders. His breath is sour with the wine he has been drinking and Sofia swallows uncomfortably.

  ‘Signorina,’ he says quietly, his mouth close to her ear, creating an unwanted intimacy between them, ‘it simply has to be a blatant falsehood that this is only your third performance, that you are in fact a… not far from being a commedia virgin. Signor Martinelli’ – he nods towards Agostino – ‘is quite obviously telling me a pack of lies. You have been acting for years!’

  ‘No, signore,’ Sofia says, more confidently than she feels. ‘I promise you, he’s quite correct.’

  Da Correggio’s other hand goes to Sofia’s chin: she tries not to flinch as he tilts her face up towards his and studies it for some seconds. Then, turning to a frozen-faced woman some seats away, he says, ‘There, Maddalena, what do you say now? I told you she was exquisite, did I not? Quite exquisite!’

  The woman makes no response. Her features might have been carved in stone.

  ‘What about you, signore?’ He is now addressing a thin man with sparse hair, seated next to the woman, and seems, Sofia thinks, to be goading him deliberately. ‘Well, Signor di Maccio, do you not agree with me that this child is quite lovely? And did she not perform well? Was her pretty little Colombina not a triumph? Does the sight of such a perfect creature – seen close to – not arouse you, sir?’

  Her skin prickling with embarrassment, Sofia’s gaze flicks from the woman to this Signor di Maccio – a sparse-haired, finely dressed nobleman – who, she sees, is eyeing
her with what seems worryingly like distaste rather than admiration. Signor di Maccio turns back to da Correggio and Sofia is shocked at the naked rage in his sunken-cheeked face. The atmosphere around this end of the table has tautened and stiffened, as though the signore is somehow paralysing everyone around him with his heartily cheerful words – rendering his guests oddly lifeless. It appears to be calculated, and he seems to be thoroughly enjoying the process.

  Turning to Agostino, seated a couple of seats down on her other side, Sofia widens her eyes, pleading silently with him to be rescued. But Agostino’s big face is flushed and his goblet is empty, and he merely smiles widely at her, enjoying his host’s admiration and not registering Sofia’s distress.

  ‘Ago, sort out a dispute for us!’ Federico says then in a truculent voice from further down the table, and Agostino turns away. ‘Giovanni Battista says we should be thinking about performing some of Lombardone’s scenarios but I say the man can’t write.’