They are hand in hand: Mamma is walking quickly with the basket of herbs over her arm, and Sofia skips by her side. ‘And the crayfish’s claws are tied tightly – like this…’ Mamma bunches the tips of her fingers and thumb together and points them at Sofia. ‘… because they’re very, very cross about having to become our supper…’ She jabs the fingers forwards to pinch the end of Sofia’s nose.
Sofia laughs.
‘The nice market man has promised us three crayfish in return for these…’ Mamma shakes the basket. ‘And the other man has given us cheese and asparagus – he didn’t really want to, but the crayfish man told him he should.’
‘What does asparagus taste like?’
‘Delicious! You dip those long green fingers into melted butter and bite off the tips – like this…’ She takes hold of Sofia’s free hand and holds the end of her daughter’s small index finger between her teeth for a second. Sofia squeals happily. ‘And they taste green and lovely.’
‘What does green taste like, though?’
Mama frowns, thinking. ‘I don’t know – just green. Fresh, like the smell of summer.’
‘Poor crayfish,’ Sofia says. ‘They have no idea what’s just around the corner for them.’
And neither had we, Sofia thinks now, sitting up on the thin mattress and hugging her knees. Neither had we. Not then, not now.
26
Nearly an hour has passed since Angelo strode away into the darkness of the house beside the Palazzo Communale in the company of the formidable Signor da Budrio. Beppe has been pacing the length of the façade of the building like a caged animal ever since, back and forth, pointlessly, wordlessly, counting his steps – twenty-two each way – hands deep in his breeches pockets, staring down at his feet as he walks, scraping and scuffing the dust. His head is still pounding.
The crowd became restive some moments ago, and seemed on the point of abandoning their defiant support and slipping away bit by bit, but Agostino, Cosima, Vico and Lidia, Federico and Giovanni Battista, almost without discussion – merely by sharing a flicked glance and mutter and a couple of nods – began to perform. Quickly adapting the final scene from The Three Loyal Friends to remove Arlecchino from the proceedings – Beppe was clearly beyond any involvement – within a couple of minutes, they had the crowd hooting and catcalling, clapping and laughing.
Beppe hardly heard them.
Each time he passes the door now on his relentless paced way from one end of the building to the other, he glances across at it, willing it to open, feeling in his chest wild, suffocating, smothering surges of hope and despair pushing up like silt into his throat.
The scene concludes and the crowd applauds wildly. Agostino, standing now up on a low wall, shouts out above their noise, ‘Stay with us! Please! It can’t be long now – and if… if… if it has gone badly…’
Beppe’s heart twists painfully but Agostino’s voice rings out again. ‘If it has gone badly, then we will need you. We might even need to storm the building. We’ll have her out, come what may!’
The crowd cheers and claps, people stamp their feet and whoop. Beppe knows in his heart that this can only be Ago’s wild words; he imagines the crowd pushing through, past the wool-haired man, da Budrio, surging into the building like rats, barging their way along corridors, up staircases, banging on doors and breaking windows, knocking down anyone who stands in their way in their search for Sofia. It couldn’t happen. Why has Ago said it?
‘But…’ Agostino continues. ‘But we must wait patiently a little longer, please, my friends. Just a little longer.
Murmurs of agreement. The clapping and whooping dies away.
Lidia now begins to sing – a haunting, lilting love song, which Vico normally accompanies on his guitar – and Beppe feels tears pricking sharp in the corners of his eyes. Lidia’s voice rises up above the mutterings of the crowd, and the whole piazza falls silent to listen. The sound is pure and sweet, laden with longing and love, and redolent with a heart-touching comprehension of the pain of loss.
Beppe feels Cosima’s arms around him. ‘Oh, don’t cry, sweet boy,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll have her back soon, I’m sure.’
Wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist, Beppe nods at her, nipping the end of his tongue between his teeth.
Lidia’s voice lingers on a high note, then falls back down to resolve the melody into its final bars.
The crowd claps, cheering and stamping once more, and, distracted by their energy, deafened by their noise, Beppe does not hear the door to the dark building opening at last and he is watching Lidia as it swings wide.
But someone shouts out, and he whirls around.
The crowd has begun to clap and the sound is echoing off the walls of the piazza. Several people whistle.
Flanked by Angelo and a grim-faced Signor da Budrio, Sofia is standing in the doorway. Small and white-faced and dirty, her hair tangled and flattened on one side, her eyes are wide and dark-rimmed and she is looking out at the crowd, her mouth dropping open a fraction at the sight of the packed city square.
Beppe steps forward, breath held, his heart racing. Some dozen people are standing between him and the doorway, but he edges through, turning sideways, arms raised, muttering apologies as he shoulders his way past.
Suddenly aware of the movement, Sofia turns and sees him. She stares at him, and he cannot take his eyes from her face. Someone is speaking – a deep voice – but it takes Beppe several seconds to realize that it is da Budrio and that he should listen.
‘And so,’ da Budrio is saying, ‘following a frankly revelatory discussion, we have come to the conclusion that it will perhaps be advisable – given the circumstances laid out to us so forcefully here by Signor da Bagnacavallo…’
He inclines his head to Angelo, who lifts his chin, smirking out at the crowd, a scroll of paper in one hand.
‘… it will be advisable to presume that the killer of the unfortunate Signor da Correggio is regrettably still at large. Our forces and moneys will henceforth be put into attempting to discover the real culprit.’
The crowd mutters and someone shouts, ‘What are you actually going to do about it, then?’
‘Aye – what’s to be done?’
Several more people call out their wish to know more about proposed plans, and da Budrio holds up a hand for quiet.
Sofia and Beppe are still gazing fixedly at one another.
Beppe is struggling to breathe.
‘I have men departing for the Castello della Franceschina as we speak,’ da Budrio says pompously, and, putting a hand in the small of Sofia’s back, he pushes her gently out, away from the door. She moves like a sleepwalker towards where Beppe is standing, until she is no more than a pace in front of him. For a second he stands immobile; then, with a rush of exhilarated relief that leaves him light-headed, he throws his arms around her and holds her tight. She clings to him, crying now, grasping handfuls of the back of his doublet, pressing herself against him, tilting her face up towards his.
Beppe cups the back of her head with one hand and kisses her, and the crowd applauds enthusiastically, shifting in to stand closer to the two clasped figures, who are entirely unaware of being the centre of such rapt attention.
‘But…’ Da Budrio’s voice booms out above the surge of clapping and Beppe and Sofia pull back and turn to look at him, arms still wound around each other. ‘But I am nonetheless extremely angry. Yes,’ he says, holding hands up to quieten a rumble of sulky murmuring. ‘Yes, I accept that doubt may have been cast upon the reliability of the evidence offered for this crime, but public order has been threatened. Public calm has been disrupted. Public safety has been put at risk – at the instigation’ – he points at Agostino with a fat and accusatory forefinger – ‘of this troupe of reprobates.’
Beppe holds his breath, pulling Sofia in more closely to him.
‘And so I have no choice.’
The crowd is entirely silent now. Nobody speaks, nobody mutters; only a co
ugh is heard, somewhere at the back of the piazza.
‘You actors will not work here in Bologna again.’
Every member of the troupe gasps audibly, and the crowd shifts and murmurs.
Da Budrio continues, ‘I do not wish to hear of any performances by this troupe – not one, however small, however impromptu – within the area of the city’s jurisdiction, for the next two years. Two years, do you hear? And know that that area of jurisdiction extends to Reggio in the west, to Ferrara in the north and out to Ravenna in the east. Signor da Bagnacavallo has the details of the agreement we have drawn up. Have no doubt about this’ – he glares at the Coraggiosi – ‘any breach of my injunction will result in summary arrest and detention and I will not look upon the matter with any sense of leniency again. My reputation, built over decades, has always been one of stringent rigour and I see no reason for it to change now.’
Glancing round at Agostino, Beppe sees his face is drawn and tight. He has Cosima by the hand.
‘And you, city-dwellers,’ da Budrio concludes loudly, turning once again to the crowd. ‘I am aware that you were encouraged and drawn into this… this… insurrection at the instigation of a persuasive and highly skilled bunch of deceptively convincing rogues, but the fact remains that you did, by your own choice, agree to gather together here today and to threaten the calm and order of the city of Bologna. And that, I cannot and will not tolerate. Do anything of the like again – any one of you – and you will find me considerably less accommodating than I have been today. Do I make myself clear?’
‘All too fucking clear!’ A rough male voice from somewhere in the crowd shouts out distinctly. ‘You’ve cocked up and someone else is going to have to pay for it. It won’t be the first time.’
A rumble of muttering.
Da Budrio’s colour is rising. ‘I will not endure such insubordination!’ he shouts and his voice is thick and raw with anger.
Several others in the crowd rally in support of the heckler and a flurry of jeering jibes can clearly be heard.
‘What d’you plan to do about it then, you pointless, two-scudi despot?’
‘You’ve treated us like dirt for long enough, you bastard!’
‘Justice! None of you knows the meaning of the bloody word!’
A dozen or so black-clad men are clustered in the doorway behind da Budrio; turning his head over his shoulder, he mutters inaudibly to the tallest of them, who snaps his fingers. The whole bunch strides out into the piazza, pushing a brutal way through the jostling crowd to where the heckler and his friends are still jeering. Staring, horrified, Beppe watches as three of them round on the protester, flooring the man with several well-aimed punches. The others, a few of whom have drawn short-bladed knives, have their backs to the fight, as though daring anyone to object, and the crowd pulls back, clearing a circle around the combatants.
Nobody tries to intervene. It seems, Beppe thinks, that the Bolognese desire for justice is perhaps not as passionate as their words have implied.
The men in black drag the heckler to his feet – he sags in their arms – and they pull him half-conscious through to where da Budrio still stands in the doorway of the town hall.
‘Take him away!’ da Budrio thunders. ‘As I said: I will not tolerate insurrection.’
No one speaks or utters a sound as the black-doubleted thugs half carry, half drag the protester out of sight through a nearby open doorway.
The piazza is still and silent.
Da Budrio glares around at them. ‘Be gone, the lot of you! And you, you actors – you too will be gone from the city’s walls by sunset. I have no wish to lay eyes on any one of you again.’
The crowd swirls quickly away, like dirty water down a drain, and within minutes, the Coraggiosi are alone in the piazza, standing awkwardly, looking at each other and not speaking. Beppe has reluctantly relinquished his hold on Sofia, but has her hand gripped tightly in his; they stand side by side, pressed against each other, and Beppe can feel Sofia trembling. Her face is streaked with tears and dirt.
Agostino speaks first. His voice is tight and his face, Beppe thinks, looks somehow shrunken and older than it did even this morning. ‘Angelo,’ he says. ‘Thank you for what you’ve done. Thank you for getting her out.’
A murmur of agreement buzzes between the other members of the troupe. Angelo, however, looks deflated. His face too has altered. The arrogant aristocrat of a few moments ago has wilted, and his high-chinned, disdainful confidence has vanished, leaving a surprising air of anxiety and discomfort hanging about him like dirty rags. When Agostino says, ‘What did you say to him? How did you do it?’ Angelo merely shrugs and mutters, ‘I don’t know. There are just times when it is useful to have exalted antecedents, I suppose.’
Cosima moves across and gives him a hug, which Angelo does not return. Looking a little affronted, she stands back and puts a hand on his shoulder, saying, ‘Well, we are all very grateful, whatever you said.’
Federico clears his throat. ‘But we had better move, hadn’t we? However grateful we are.’ He nods towards Angelo. ‘Or we’ll all be in trouble.’
‘Oh, heavens, yes,’ Agostino says. ‘Sofia my love, we are so, so happy that you’re safely out.’ Striding across towards her, he pulls her away from Beppe and into an embrace; then, standing back and putting a hand on either side of her face, he stares down at her, a furrow of concern between his eyebrows for a second or two. Then he looks around at them all. ‘But Federico’s right. You heard what the man said… and you saw what’s just happened. We’re going to have to leave Bologna fast!’ He clicks his fingers. ‘I suggest we head down to Firenze.’
‘Firenze?’
‘Yes. We need to get out of Emilia-Romagna – away from da Budrio’s influence – and apart from anything else it will be warmer going south. We might be out in the open rather more than we had anticipated before now.’
Sofia looks at Beppe. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she starts to mutter. Her lip trembles and tears begin to swell in her eyes, but Beppe shakes his head.
Turning to face her, he runs a hand over her hair. ‘No. Stop it. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for – just don’t say it.’ Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kisses her knuckles. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe. We all are.’
Two small boys are standing beside the yellow wagon when they arrive at the patch of waste ground: glancing repeatedly from side to side, they are shifting their weight from foot to foot, blowing on their fingers. As the troupe approaches, their eyes widen – one leans towards the canvas cover and hisses loudly, before scrambling up and over a wall; the other ducks into an impossibly small gap between two buildings and vanishes, while the three horses start at the disturbance and pull on their tethers, their scraping feet kicking up dust and pebbles. A grubby little face peers out from inside the wagon and Beppe, Agostino and Vico all shout and break into a run. The third boy – smaller than the other two – vaults out of the wagon, a canvas bag in his hand, making for the wall over which his friend disappeared seconds before, but Vico grabs for and catches his ankle. ‘What the hell do you think you’re —?’ he begins, tugging downwards.
The boy kicks out and Vico falls back, swearing and covering his eye with his hand, but, snatching at the boy’s shirt, Beppe catches hold and pulls; the child falls at his and Vico’s feet, dropping the bag.
‘Piss off! Let me go!’ the boy says, spitting at Vico, who, one hand still clamped over his eye, has hold of the child’s leg again.
‘Piss off yourself, you little thief!’ Vico tugs at the child’s foot, pulling him further down onto his back. ‘What the hell were you doing in our wagon?’
The boy spits again but says nothing.
Pushing past Vico, Cosima bends down next to the boy and grabs at the collar of his oversized and tattered doublet: the jacket rucks up, covering the bottom half of the child’s face. Yanking him upwards, out of Vico and Beppe’s grasp, her normally passive face colours with anger and her eyes flash. ‘Tell me: wh
at were you doing in that wagon?’ she says, now holding his upper arms and shaking him. Her voice cracks. The boy glares at her, but at least refrains from spitting a third time.
Agostino shouts, ‘Go on, tell us! What were you doing, you little —?’
His voice is thick with anger but Cosima looks up at him and shakes her head. ‘No. Leave this to me, Ago,’ she says, turning back to the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy says nothing.
‘As soon as we know who you are and why you were in our wagon, you can go.’
‘I’m not saying nothing – bloody murderers!’
‘What?’ Cosima loosens her grip on the boy’s arms and he jerks himself free.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 28