Prudenza pulls a face. ‘Might be tastier than the stew.’
‘Mmm – it’s lovely. Thank you,’ Isabella says thickly, wiping a stray drop of gravy from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her ring finger.
Putting his flute down carefully on an upturned barrel, Flaminio Scala helps himself to a bowlful and, standing facing the rest of the assembled people – seven men, three women and two small boys – and pointing at them with his spoon, he says, ‘Well, Gelosi, we perform in two days’ time. I’m delighted with you all. Since our sojourn in France, we have improved beyond all expectations, and I confidently expect Arlecchino Goes to the Moon to be the raging success it deserves to be.’
Someone starts picking at the strings of a guitar. The tune he plays is haunting and sweet and, before more than a few notes have rung out, a girl begins to sing along with him. Two others join in, and the tightly harmonized song spirals up into the crispness of the October air like tendrils of smoke. A dog begins to bark, as though in competition with the song, and one of the assembled men pushes it with the toe of his boot to quieten it.
33
‘Do you think Anna is upset not to have been able to come with us?’ Sofia asks.
Niccolò shakes his head. ‘No, no, no, no. Franco needs her, and she wouldn’t want to leave him on his own, anyway. They’ve divided up their working tasks between them so well now, it would be hard for one or the other to take over the whole, I think. And I’ve left Bacca with them, too, haven’t I? They were pleased to have him. He’s a good little dog, and I think he’ll like the life there better than whatever cramped old journey we’re about to have in the cart. I’d planned to take him with me next time I went on the road, but two dogs might have been difficult to handle in such a small space, don’t you think?’
Scratching Ippo’s ears, Sofia nods. ‘I liked Anna very much.’
‘And she you.’
‘Oh, Niccolò, do you think so? I couldn’t help thinking that she resented my being there and then taking you away.’
‘You didn’t take me away, child. I chose to come with you.’ Niccolò smiles and pats Sofia’s hand. ‘There is not a chance I could possibly have let you set off on your own.’
The donkey’s long ears are pinned back, and her steps are staccato and prim, ringing out against the hard road. The little cart jolts and squeaks.
‘You remind me of Anna,’ Niccolò says now. ‘You reminded me of her that first day I met you in Modena. Strong and independent and determined.’
Feeling at that moment frightened and tired and tremblingly unsure of herself, Sofia does not know what to say to this.
‘That’s why I wanted to help you so much, I suppose,’ Niccolò says, smiling. ‘I imagined how I would feel if it was Anna – how much I’d hope that someone would do for her what I was able to do for you. She’s a good girl. I brought her up alone, and she’s made me very proud.’
Touched, Sofia nods. ‘I liked her very much.’
Niccolò pats her hand again and they travel on for several minutes without speaking. Violetta has put her ears forward now and picked up speed; she is trotting with purpose, it seems, and they cover the ground quickly. They stop for an hour or two in a little town, but Niccolò is determined to make as much progress as Violetta will allow.
‘I’d like us to get to Castel San Pietro by nightfall.’
‘Castel San Pietro?’
‘The tavern-owner there is a good friend of mine. After a night’s sleep, with luck we should make Bologna by tomorrow evening.’
Sofia glances across at him. ‘If the authorities find out I’m there…’
‘Why should they? You won’t be with the Coraggiosi…’
Sofia bites her lip.
‘… and it’s the troupe they’ll be watching out for, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. What are we going to do when we get there?’
Niccolò frowns. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure. But I know how these things work. If you trust to the good Lord – or to fate, or to whatever you believe to be most trustworthy – something usually turns up. We need to ask around, find out what people are saying about what happened at Franceschina – delicately, of course. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’
It is Sofia’s turn to frown. ‘But what if we do this – ask around – and we find out that no one knows anything? Then we will be none the wiser, and I shall be…’ Tailing off, thoughts of Beppe flood into her mind again. She pictures him first in shirtsleeves and grubby breeches, barefoot, practising his tumbling, over and over until the move is perfected. Then she sees him on stage, masked and wearing his wild, diamond-patterned jacket and trousers, declaiming some spouted piece of nonsense, flipping head over heels in frustration when whichever character he is haranguing fails to understand him. And then, as this second image of Beppe plays itself out in her head, an idea occurs to her – a startling idea which makes her draw in her breath. Though how she will accomplish it alone, she cannot begin to imagine.
‘Is something troubling you, child?’ Niccolò asks.
Sofia shakes her head. ‘No. But I’ve just thought… Listen, tell me what you think?’ And she explains the idea. By the time she has finished, Niccolò is smiling – the widest and happiest smile she has seen on his face since the day he introduced her to the Coraggiosi.
‘That is a brilliant idea. We’ll have to find a way, child,’ he says. ‘A way will most definitely have to be found.’
There is a small piazza in the centre of the little town of Pianoro; it is cramped and overlooked on all sides by buildings in varying stages of dilapidation, but on the east side is a well. Fed by a spring, the sweet water bubbles up into a squat, square stone basin and trickles out again through a hole in one corner. Squatting in front of it, Beppe cups his hands and scoops up palmfuls, over and over, till he has quenched his thirst. Giglio, the mare, dips her muzzle into the water too, and sucks noisily, splashing a great deal of water over the sides of the basin and onto the cobbles.
Beppe waits for her to finish; then, patting her neck, he walks her around the edge of the piazza towards where an archway leads off towards the north.
‘Only about ten miles to Bologna. We’ll stay there a day or so, give you a bit of a rest, then move on to Modena. Are you up to that, chick?’
Giglio tosses her head and snorts.
Gathering up the reins, Beppe pulls the mare in close to a low wall. Scrambling up onto the wall, he vaults onto her back again and, clicking his tongue, gives her a soft kick. She breaks easily into a shambling trot.
As they make their way northwards out of the town and turn onto the long road which leads directly up to Bologna, Beppe is thinking of Sofia. The thought that he might not be able to find her flaps about him like a lime-trapped bird. Modena is where he thinks she will be; he begins to plan the quickest route there. A thought strikes him. ‘Now I have you,’ he says to the mare, ‘it’d be possible to cut across country to Vignola and go directly up to Modena from there – it’d certainly be quicker than heading north now, going through Bologna and then going off west past Castelfranco.’ He pats the mare’s neck. ‘What do you think, chick? Would you be happy to go over the hills? Get off the roads?’
But, as though in answer, even as he speaks, the mare stumbles over a loose stone and pecks forward. Without a saddle, Beppe lurches up onto her neck, and it is only with luck and by clutching inelegantly at a fistful of mane that he manages to remain seated. ‘Or maybe not,’ he says, patting the mare’s neck again. ‘Perhaps it would be foolish to move away from the roads. I need to be where Sofia is most like to be. I can’t imagine her setting off across the hills on her own. I hope to God she’d not think of doing it, anyway.’
They trot on for several miles, largely in thought-filled silence, broken only spasmodically by brief conversations with fellow travellers, until the road splits into two. One branch – the wider, better-maintained of the tracks – wends slightly northwards, heading towards B
ologna, while the other – in fact little more than an untended path – heads more directly west.
‘Modena?’ a young traveller told him just now. ‘Oh yes… I doubt it’s much more than a day’s ride. If you go down to – look, can you see, amico?’ He points. ‘That stunted-looking tree down there? Go left there, that’ll set you on the right path for Modena.’
Beppe and the mare stand where the road divides.
It takes a moment to make up his mind which one of the two paths he will take.
34
Bologna
Sofia sat on this very bench with Beppe, less than a fortnight ago, she realizes as she looks about her. She can almost feel him there still, almost sense the weight of his arm around her shoulders. She runs her fingers over the wood, and a great sigh shudders in her chest as she breathes it out. Ippo lays his muzzle on her lap and his tail thuds softly on the stone floor. Sofia strokes his head.
The tavern is almost empty. A small group of clearly inebriated but cheerful men has clustered by the fire – they are laughing together at something Sofia cannot hear – but apart from them, the place is deserted, and the under-worked ale-man has a distinct air of irritation about him as he busies himself ordering his barrels and bottles, and rinses glasses in a large wooden bucket. Lit by a couple of dozen stumpy candles, the room flickers and bobs in the shifting light, seeming almost to breathe as the flames move in the many draughts.
‘So where do we go now?’ Sofia says. ‘What do we do?’
‘We rest for tonight,’ Niccolò says. ‘That’s for certain. Then we can start wandering in the morning, and talking to people. We’ll start in the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana – there’s always a crowd there. Leave it to me to start with.’
‘Ravegnana? But – that’s where I first met…’
Niccolò nods.
Swallowing uncomfortably, Sofia says, ‘And what about…’
‘What – your splendid idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well. That will all depend on who we meet, will it not? On who happens to be in town at the moment? We might be lucky – I hope to God that we are. In fact,’ Niccolò says, patting the back of Sofia’s hand, ‘I feel the Almighty owes us a crumb of good fortune. We have both had a surfeit of the opposite up until now, I feel.’
The following morning dawns crisp and clear; the sun has a clean white brightness about it, and the sky is the colour of damascened steel. Seeing that Niccolò has already left the upstairs room, Sofia dresses quickly. She has only the yellow skirt and bodice in which she left Castel del Rio so hurriedly; it was pretty once, but now, after so many days on the road, it is starting to look distinctly worn; the hem, she sees now, is filthy and stiff with spattered mud and dust. Picking up a double-handful of the skirt, she holds it to her nose, and grimaces at the sharp, unwashed smell. She is quite as dirty as the day she met the Coraggiosi.
Running her fingers up into her hair, she starts to pick at the tangles in her curls, teasing them out wisp by wisp, wishing she had thought to put a comb into the bag of belongings she snatched from the box beneath the truckle bed in the smallest wagon, for her hair is badly knotted in several places now. She eases the bag open, and tips the contents out into her lap: a spare shift; the two long crimson ribbons, tied together in a now-crumpled bow… and Beppe’s old black woollen hat – the spare, the one he no longer uses. She holds this to her nose too, and tears spike sharp in the corners of her eyes; it still smells of him and, as she closes her eyes, it is as though he is there in front of her.
‘But he wishes he’d never met me, doesn’t he?’ she mutters. ‘He says I’m trouble.’ Clutching the hat in both hands, she holds it against her mouth for a moment, then stuffs hat, shift and ribbons back into the bag. Adjusting her bodice so that it sits more comfortably, she leaves the upstairs room. Her soft footsteps are accompanied by the click-claw scrabbling of Ippo’s paws as she hurries downstairs to where Niccolò is sitting by the now extinct fire. Only ash and a strong smell of woodsmoke remains.
He pushes a basket of bread and a bowl of apricots across the table towards her. ‘Eat, child. We might be a long time on our feet today. I have bought milk too. Here, look.’ He slides a tin mug of milk towards her.
Sofia tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the milk. ‘Do you think there might be some scraps for Ippo?’ she says as the dog noses against her knee.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
Niccolò raises a hand, and the ale-man stumps over. He does not answer Niccolò’s request – he merely shrugs and walks away – but within seconds, he has returned with a pewter bowl half filled with torn scraps of meat, bread, cheese rinds and a marrow-bone, shiny with glistening red shreds, which he places on the floor near Sofia’s chair. Ippo, tail wagging furiously, drops his head and begins to eat.
‘Violetta had oats last night,’ Niccolò says now. ‘The ale-man says she may stay here at the tavern until tomorrow. She will be glad of the rest. Ippo can stay in the stable with her.’
Sofia nods, her mouth now too full of bread to answer.
The Piazza di Porta Ravegnana is indeed crowded, even at the early hour at which Niccolò and Sofia arrive there. Market stalls have been crammed into every available space and the crowd is busily pushing its way from place to place, haggling, laughing, arguing, shouting; spending money and making it in equal measures.
Sofia watches as Niccolò begins to search for information. Staying close, she says nothing as he charms his chosen targets as effortlessly as she remembers him doing back in Modena the day she first met him.
‘Busy here today, is it not, signora?’ he is saying now to a large lady in a richly embroidered blue dress.
‘Oh, indeed it is, signore. I have to say I cannot be doing with it for much longer.’
‘I heard that there was something of a riot here in the city not long ago.’
‘A riot, signore?’ The woman sounds shocked.
‘So I was told – perhaps you know more than I do. Over in the Piazza Maggiore.’ Niccolò jerks his head in the direction of the piazza, lowering his voice to something of a thrilling whisper. ‘An accusation of… murder, someone told me.’
‘Murder? A riot? Oh cielo!’
Sofia sees Niccolò smile sweetly at his companion’s ignorance. ‘My dear signora, please do not trouble yourself! I have clearly been misinformed.’ He bows neatly and turns away, leaving the large lady staring after him.
A few seconds later he tries again – with no success.
And again.
And again.
And then… ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘so I heard. In the Piazza Maggiore.’
His new friend – a young man in a leather jerkin and dirty canvas breeches – is nodding vigorously. ‘You heard right. I was there. At the back of the crowd.’
At this, Sofia’s eyes widen and she takes a step back. What if she is recognized? But the young man seems not to notice her; his attention is firmly on Niccolò.
‘Do tell me about it, signore.’
The young man grins and begins to expound upon the events of that day, gesticulating wildly, enjoying the effect that his narrative is having upon his listener – for Niccolò is making sure to encourage him, with nods and smiles and sucked-in shocked breaths. ‘And then… then that fat old pile of offal, da Budrio, God rot him, as good as admits that he’d got it wrong and that the little bitch is innocent, and he tells the lot of us to bugger off.’
‘And did you all do as you were told? Did you – bugger off?’
‘You’re damned right we did. After some poor sod spoke out and got himself roundly thumped and dragged off by the bloody sbirri. I wasn’t hanging about there to get picked up and thrown into the cell they’d just booted the girl out of, was I?’
Niccolò again lowers his voice to the thrill-soaked stage whisper. ‘And did you… did you ever find out… who did the deed? If the girl didn’t?’
Sofia holds her breath.
The young man leans in t
owards Niccolò. ‘I heard tell’, he says in a sibilant hiss, ‘that they’ve searched the castle where it happened – from top to bottom – and have found nothing. Nothing at all.’
Disappointment floods down into Sofia’s belly.
‘Never mind, cara,’ Niccolò says, his arm now around Sofia’s shoulders. ‘Never mind. You didn’t think we would discover what we came searching for on the first morning, did you?’
‘No, of course not.’ Colour floods into her face at the lie.
‘We’ll just keep trying.’
A sudden flurry of movement shifts the crowd around them, and a blare of loud and joyous music pushes its way into the piazza. Thinking of the Coraggiosi, Sofia is suddenly awash with confusion, as a desire to see Beppe – so strong it all but knocks her over – fights with a dread of meeting him and seeing the rejection she knows will be clearly visible on his face. She stares about her, searching for the origin of the sound.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 34