‘When? Where? Why have you never said? Either of you?’
Beppe cannot look at her, or at Vico, who has joined them. ‘It’s difficult,’ he mutters, shrugging. ‘I’ll tell you some time. Not now.’
‘But…?’
‘Please, Lidia, I just can’t.’
She hugs him. ‘I’m sorry. Whatever you want, sweet boy. Tell us when you’re ready. We’re all badly rattled by everything that’s happened. It’s going to take a bit of time to settle, that’s all.’
Beppe nods.
‘I said the same to Sofia a few hours ago. It’ll just take a bit of time.’
‘Here.’ Vico, his eye still swollen and bruised, is holding out a mug of ale. ‘Have this. I’m having one.’
Taking it from him, Beppe returns to the brazier and, sitting back down on the little stool, he leans forward, cradling the mug in both hands, his arms resting heavily on his thighs.
‘Tell you what, though, there is one thing I’d like to know,’ Vico says, sitting down next to him, swallowing a mouthful of ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘and that’s where our handsome friend goes when he disappears – which he does considerably more often than anyone else. It’s not always in the same town, so I don’t think it’s a woman. Though there would be enough takers, I reckon.’ He snorts softly. ‘And – now I’m thinking about it – what was he so worked up about with that brown bottle the other day, when that little bastard urchin tried to ransack the wagons? What was that all about? Beppe, do you know?’
‘Brown bottle?’ Cosima asks.
Vico nods. ‘Mmm. Just before we left Bologna. The scabby little boy had pinched a bag from one of the carts – he dropped it when he ran off. I picked it up after he’d gone, and there was this brown glass bottle in it. Pulled the cork. It smelled of… oh God, I don’t know… rancid spices or something. I was just sniffing it when Angelo saw me. Snatched it off me and barked at me to keep my hands off it. Thought he was going to throw a punch.’
‘Spices?’ Cosima is looking puzzled.
Vico nods again. ‘Mmm. Spices. Sickly, though. Really strong. Made me feel a bit light-headed just sniffing the stuff.’
Agostino’s expression is serious. ‘Oh cielo, I don’t like the sound of that at all,’ he says, more to himself than to Vico. ‘Not at all.’ He sighs deeply. ‘Oh dear, what on earth is happening to us all?
‘Do you know, Beppe? Does whatever has happened – whatever it is that you don’t want to talk about – does it explain this little bottle? And Angelo’s absences?’
‘No. I know nothing about any of that – truly, Ago. I’d tell you if I knew.’
Agostino pats Beppe’s shoulder and turns to Cosima. ‘What do you think, cara?’
Compressing her lips, Cosima sighs. ‘I’ve always had my worries and doubts about Angelo. He’s always been… oh, I don’t know… detached from the rest of the troupe, hasn’t he? On his own, in a way. He doesn’t have a close friend amongst us, after all, does he?’
Agostino frowns. ‘Oh dear, I’m not liking the sound of all this at all. It all seems very troubling and uncertain. And spices? Goodness knows what’s in that bottle. I think I need to go and talk with him. I’ll go now, before he goes to sleep. Or disappears off again somewhere. Stay here, the rest of you, will you? I don’t want Angelo to think that we are stacking ourselves up against him.’
‘Even if we are…’ Vico says drily.
Agostino flashes him a look. Striding away from them over towards the wagons, arms tightly folded in front of him, head ducked forwards, he stops in front of the blue wagon. Beppe sees him shake his head; then, squaring his shoulders, Agostino reaches up and draws back the hangings, leaning in for a moment; he climbs up onto the wooden step and disappears inside.
A lump of wood shifts in the brazier and a shower of fat red sparks spatters out towards where Beppe, Lidia and Vico, Cosima, Federico and Giovanni Battista are sitting. One lands on Lidia’s skirts and she pats it away hastily. A silence has fallen amongst them all. Apart from a long sigh from Cosima and a phlegmy cough from Giovanni Battista, no one makes a sound. Only the hissing crackle of the fire breaks the stillness of the night air.
They sit wordlessly for several minutes; Beppe finds himself holding his breath, and realizes how fiercely he is straining to hear what might be being said in the blue wagon. Glancing at the others, he sees the same expression of taut concentration on each face that he can feel upon his own.
Then, standing, he says, ‘I’m going to Sofia – she said she had a headache. Do you have anything I can give her for it, Cosima?’
‘Look in the blue box in the smallest wagon. Niccolò left me some feverfew – take a cup of hot water and steep some of the flowers in it for her. It might help.’
Beppe nods his thanks and, scooping up a cup full of water from the iron pot on the brazier, he makes his way back over to the smallest wagon, where he and Sofia have been sleeping for the past few nights, curled together on the cramped truckle bed, sleeping fitfully, grateful for the warmth of each other’s bodies as the autumn nights have chilled.
Vaulting up over the tailgate, smiling in anticipation, he is surprised to see that the wagon is empty. His smile vanishes.
It takes no more than a couple of seconds to cross to the blue cart. Standing on the bottom step and leaning in through the hangings, he sees Angelo on his feet, one hand up on the canvas roof-cover, pointing an accusatory forefinger at Agostino. Agostino is shaking his head, mouth open as he tries to interrupt the angry flow.
‘You have absolutely no right to —’ Angelo breaks off and snatches his head around as Beppe clears his throat. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Seeing in an instant that Sofia is not there, Beppe makes no reply but draws back out of the wagon and runs, a little thread of anxiety beginning to tighten around his throat, towards the only place Sofia can be. The yellow wagon.
But it too is empty.
29
Maddalena stares out of her bedchamber window. A fluttering tremor in her belly startles her, and she presses a hand to it, tucking her chin down and staring at the place where the child has just kicked. Then, lifting that hand, she gazes at the palm, curling and uncurling her fingers, frowning at it, breathing a little faster as she contemplates what it has done. She has washed her hands a hundred times since, but they still feel dirty.
30
‘Go back! Go back, Ippo – please!’ Sofia bends and points back down the path, the tears hot in her eyes and suddenly chill on her cheeks. Her voice cracks as she says again, ‘Please, caro, go back!’
But the dog stands square, staring at her, tail slowly wagging and tongue lolling.
‘Go! I don’t want you!’
This last, though, is a lie. Sofia hisses at the dog once more, to absolve herself of guilt; then when Ippo still refuses to turn back, she crouches down, fondles his ears and hugs him, burying her face in the thick fur of his neck.
With the dog at her heels, she strides on, swallowing more often than is comfortable, breathing through an open mouth, for her nose is congested with crying; every few seconds she wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. It is very dark, though a fitful moon is shining at intervals through untidy clouds. She has no idea where she is going – but the thought of staying a moment longer after what she has just heard is entirely impossible. Oh yes, you’re right, I made a mistake. I hate to admit it but she’s trouble. I should never have got close to her – I had a feeling it was going to end badly right from the start. That’s what he said. She heard it clearly. She’s trouble. She’s trouble. She’s trouble. Beppe has been distant and different for days; ever since she was released from that dreadful place, he has been… not unkind, not unloving, but just different. She knew something was wrong right from the start, and so even if she is horrified and miserable at the thought of what she has just heard him say, she has to admit that she is not surprised. Such a sentiment is, after all, what she has half expected – and
dreaded – ever since she first kissed him. Nothing that felt so wonderful could be allowed to last. She knows that she would not be able to bear seeing open rejection in his face, so leaving the troupe like this – before he can pretend to her that he wants her to stay – seems to be the only option.
But where will she go?
What on earth will she do?
She would be unwise to go back into Bologna, and Modena would be no less foolish – it seems to Sofia now that false accusations are beginning to dog her every step, and a sense of anger begins to rise in her. The foul-breathed man in Modena – an accusation of theft; the authorities in Bologna – an accusation of murder, for God’s sake! They thought her a murderer. And now Beppe has accused her of being trouble. Perhaps though, she thinks now, he at least is justified in his accusation. Perhaps she is trouble, for complications certainly seem to follow her wherever she goes.
It’s like poor Mamma.
The three men walk slowly towards them.
‘Leave the brat,’ one of them says. ‘It’s you we want, you murdering bitch.’
‘No… I’ve done nothing…’ Mamma says, and her voice is high and thin.
‘Nothing? Only poisoned my wife.’
Mamma shakes her head. ‘No. No, I didn’t. I tried to make her well.’
The man sneers at her. ‘I think not.’
‘You have to believe me – I tried my best for her.’
For a moment, Mamma presses back against Sofia, crushing her against the wall, then at the last moment, she breaks away and starts to run. Sofia screams. Ignoring her, the men race after Mamma. Mamma runs fast, and reaches the bridge before they do. It is a flimsy wooden bridge – one of the wobbling ones that Sofia is frightened to walk on. And as Mamma runs onto it now, there is a terrible tearing noise of breaking wood and two of the supporting struts collapse. Mamma shrieks. Sofia’s mouth opens and she tries to scream again, but no sound comes out as Mamma falls with the breaking bridge, down onto the stone coping of the canal and into the water.
The men are looking at where Mamma is in the water. She is not moving.
‘There’s blood in the water.’
‘Fuck. Let’s get out now.’
‘Roberto, come on! What are you waiting for? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
And they run. Heavy-footed, swearing as they stumble in their haste to get away, they run.
Mamma doesn’t move. Sofia is on the edge of the canal now, lying on her belly, reaching out to Mamma.
‘They’ve gone, Mamma! You can come out now! Mamma!’
She touches her mother’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers but Mamma just turns silently and floats a little further away from the bank. She is face down in the water and now Sofia cannot reach her at all.
The clatter of hooves startles her.
‘What the —?’
A small and shabby cart has pulled sharply across to avoid her, and the hooves of the two harnessed horses skitter on the loose-stoned ground. Ippo whines and scurries around the back of her skirts.
Gasping, she takes a step back off the path into the shadows. She won’t go back. If Beppe no longer wants her, then to be in their company and to have to see him and be near him every day would be a torture she cannot bear to contemplate.
But it is not the troupe.
‘What the hell are you doing? D’you want to get yourself killed?’ An unknown male voice, sharp with fright.
Sofia cannot see his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.
Another voice, a woman, says, ‘Giorgio, stop, will you? It’s just a girl. What in heaven’s name is she doing out here in the dark like this?’
Sofia hears the man click his tongue against his teeth. He sounds irritable. ‘No doubt she has her own reasons. Come on, we have to make up time. We’re out in it ourselves, after all, and your father —’
‘No, Giorgio, wait. Signorina, are you in need of assistance? I see that you’re heading away from Castel del Rio and it’s a most dreadfully long way to the next tavern. Are you —?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maria, leave the girl alone. We can’t afford to delay.’
Sofia does not know how to answer.
The woman – Maria – says, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t believe you’re happy to be out here alone. Can we take you on to the next tavern or town? You could travel up in the cart with Giorgio and me.’
‘Maria, I —’
‘No, Giorgio, we can’t leave her out here. Enrico was robbed only last month, and he’s a man and handy with a sword. They took everything he had. Look at her: she can’t be much more than sixteen.’ Maria pauses. ‘There’s more than robbery a girl like her needs to fear. Go on – get down and help her up.’
Giorgio sighs. ‘Very well.’ He puffs a breath. ‘Should you care for a ride to the next tavern, signorina?’
His tone clearly declares his irritation and doubt, but, silently offering a brief prayer of thanks, Sofia nods. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, signore, then yes, I should be most grateful.’
‘Good.’ Maria sounds pleased. ‘I knew you would. Help her up next to me, Gio. Can you manage, signorina?’
Sofia mutters a yes. Giorgio hands the reins to Maria. Clicking his fingers to summon Sofia over to where Maria’s horse is fidgeting and tossing its head, he bends and places his hands together, making a step. Sofia places one foot onto his palms and feels him shove firmly upwards. Grabbing at Maria’s proffered arm, she slithers one leg over the edge of the rough wooden side of the cart and pulls awkwardly at her skirts, freeing them from where they have caught and crumpled beneath her. She sees the man wipe his muddied hands on his breeches.
Maria shuffles across the seat to give Sofia more space. ‘Is that enough room for you? I’m sorry, it’s not a very pleasant cart, but we had to —’
‘Maria, that’s enough.’ Giorgio’s voice is clipped and irritable. ‘There’s a dog down here. Is it yours, signorina?’
‘Oh yes, yes he is.’
‘Here – take him.’ With an inelegant scrabbling of paws, and a fair amount of frantic grunting, Ippo is handed up to Sofia, who holds him tightly on her lap. He is too big to sit there comfortably, and his claws dig into her legs as she tries to settle herself on the cramped seat; she can feel him trembling as she holds him in close.
Sofia, finding herself pressed against Maria, smells clean wool and freshly washed linen; this woman’s travelling clothes are obviously well made and expensive. She hopes fervently that her own smell, by contrast, is not too unpleasant to her fragrant new companion.
‘What’s your name?’ Maria asks as Giorgio climbs back into the cart, takes the reins and clicks his tongue. With a scrunch of pebbles under the iron rims of the wheels, they move off.
Sofia tells her.
‘Why are you out in the middle of nowhere in the dark?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘Oh, so is our story – you simply cannot have as terrible a situation as ours!’ Maria says, sounding far more cheerful about her circumstances than her words would imply. ‘We’re determined to marry, we two, but Papa has refused. He has never cared for anyone in Giorgio’s family and the thought of being joined to them for good if we marry is threatening to send him into a permanent decline… He’s refused to let it go ahead, so we’ve run away. We stole Papa’s woodsman’s cart and horses and left two hours ago. We’re going to travel right through the night. We’re on our way to Ravenna.’
Sofia does not know what to say.
‘They won’t come after us as far as Ravenna, I’m sure, will they, Gio? We’ll be right out of Toscana and I can’t begin to imagine them following us that far. Just a few days – that’s how long we think it’ll take to get there – and then we’ll marry. Won’t we?’
Her companion makes a noise of assent in his nose.
‘What about you, though? What brought you to be out here like this? All on your own. You must be terribly brave…’
‘I’m not,
’ Sofia says quietly.
‘Oh, you must be. I’m sure I should never have been able to walk alone like that in the middle of the night…’
‘Let the poor girl be, Maria,’ the young man says with a trace of affectionate amusement in his voice.
‘No, I must ask her all about it. Do tell – why are you out here by yourself?’
Sofia pauses. Trying to explain what has happened in a few words seems impossible, and she has no wish to divulge details. She says, ‘I… I found out that… that I was wrong about how someone felt about… Well, I…’ She cannot finish the sentence. ‘I wanted to get away,’ she ends in a very small voice, feeling tears thickening in her nose.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 31