‘We have much to discuss, I think,’ he says. His voice is quiet, but it carries across the big room with ease.
Beppe puts an arm around Sofia’s shoulders; she bends her arm up and links her fingers through his.
‘Beppe,’ Agostino says. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain the changes you made to this evening’s performance. And – NO!’ His voice is suddenly thunderous. ‘Angelo, you will not leave the room! You will stay and listen – and speak when it is time for you to do so. I think you may have much to say – and there may well be much from you that we shall want to hear.’
Looking around, Sofia sees that Angelo has frozen with one hand on the handle of the door through which the servants have just left. He releases his grip and slouches over to sit on a nearby cross-framed chair, arms folded tightly across his chest.
‘Beppe, explain!’
Vico clears his throat and interrupts. ‘Ago, it wasn’t just Beppe. He had the idea of using Fosca only because of my suspicions. I began this.’
‘Very well. But I’m waiting to hear anything – from either of you – that can begin to explain why you chose to jeopardize the success of such an important performance. You knew how vital this show was to our establishing a presence down here! You knew that word would spread quickly from here and that other potential patrons would undoubtedly hear from our host tonight about the quality of the play he commissioned.’ Agostino wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘And yet you chose to… to… undermine one of the most important performers by hurling unrehearsed material at him in front of an audience. How could you? If it hadn’t been for Angelo’s level head, the show might have collapsed entirely!’
Beppe glances across at Vico. ‘We had good reasons, Ago.’
‘Explain them.’
And between the two of them, Beppe and Vico attempt to do just that.
As the story unfolds, Sofia, whose gaze is flicking from Beppe and Vico to Angelo and back, sees the latter losing colour and stiffening. His exquisitely proportioned face has rapidly become drawn and white, and a muscle is twitching in his jaw, deepening the hollow there. Every few seconds, he runs his tongue over his lips.
Agostino and the others listen to Beppe and Vico without a word: Agostino is stony-faced; Cosima tight-lipped and miserable; Federico is shaking his head and Giovanni Battista frowning with bemusement. Niccolò is warily shifting his gaze from Agostino to Angelo and back, his expression set and taut.
‘And’, Beppe says, finishing his story, ‘I suppose it was following on from Sofia’s idea in Bologna – of creating a scene to flush the guilty party out by confronting them with their crimes – that I thought of Fosca.’ He swallows uncomfortably. ‘Fosca does that better than anyone. We knew we had no certain evidence, so we wanted to do something that would at least bring things out into the open, if not actually provide any proof.’
A long and very uncomfortable pause stretches out.
Agostino then opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a word, there is a knock at the door of the big chamber and the three servants come back in, smiling broadly and bearing trays laden with food.
Thanks are given, the servants’ requests for the food to be served are politely refused, respectful bows are made and the servants leave the room once more.
Staring at the closed door for several seconds, Agostino hesitates, then turns to Angelo. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘What do you have to say to all this?’
Angelo snorts. ‘I don’t have to answer to them.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Agostino says coldly, ‘but, given my position as the head of the Coraggiosi, you do have to answer to me.’ He glances across at Beppe, who is now hand in hand with Sofia on a low seat near the fire. ‘What do you say to these charges, Angelo?’
‘They’re ridiculous.’
‘Is there any basis of fact in anything these two have said? Anything at all?’
Angelo’s pallor flushes dark. He says nothing.
‘This opium?’ Agostino says. ‘What about that?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
Agostino glares at him. ‘Well, I would rather that you did say.’
‘Well, then, yes. I have taken it – at least I’ve taken laudanum – in the past.’ Angelo sounds defensive and irritable.
‘The recent past?’
A sulky shrug is the only answer Agostino receives.
‘And from where have you obtained it? From one particular source? Or a variety?’
There is something inexorable and irresistible about Agostino’s voice and his unwavering stare. Watching, breath held and with heartbeat racing, Sofia sees Angelo’s tightly set mouth twitch, sees the tip of a red tongue dart out to wet his lower lip and knows that he is about to reveal the truth.
‘One in particular,’ he says.
‘Who was that?’
There is another long and painful pause. ‘Sebastiano da Correggio.’
A soft intake of breath can be heard from everyone in the room.
Agostino waits a second or two, then says in a slow and expressionless voice, ‘Angelo, did you have anything to do with that man’s death?’
Turning his head away, Angelo stares hard at the floor. His arms are tightly folded in front of his chest and his shoulders have hunched as though to avoid a physical blow. He shrugs again.
‘Tell us what happened.’ Agostino’s voice is now little more than a whisper, and his expression is terrible. Watching him now, Sofia thinks that it will certainly be something like this facing the recording angel; Angelo surely cannot refuse this steely demand for the truth.
He draws in a long breath, holds it for several seconds, then releases it in a puff. In a fast, clipped monotone he begins to speak. ‘Sebastiano had a friend in Switzerland – a man who worked with an old apothecary called von Hohenheim. A few years ago this friend told him that von Hohenheim had invented a way of preserving opium in alcohol. It kills pain better than any other substance yet found.’
Everyone turns to look at Niccolò, who nods his agreement with this.
Angelo flicks a glance at Niccolò, then stares resolutely back at the rush-strewn floor. ‘But it doesn’t just kill pain.’ Glancing up at Agostino, his eyes are burning. ‘It makes you feel… oh God, it makes you feel… released… when you take it. Ecstatic. It’s almost impossible to find in Italy – it’s still practically unknown here – but Sebastiano knew this friend of von Hohenheim and he was able to receive regular deliveries.’
No one speaks or moves. All eyes are now on Angelo.
He shrugs and says, ‘It was easy to start with, but, after a couple of times when I was late paying him, Sebastiano started to be difficult about dealing with me. Unpleasant, to be honest. I should have walked away from him – but… when you need the stuff as badly as… I… I mean… I didn’t know how to stop.’
Beppe’s grip on Sofia’s hand tightens. Glancing up at him, she sees that his expression is easily as stony and angry as Agostino’s.
‘Just before we went to Franceschina,’ Angelo continues, ‘I saw da Correggio in Bologna, and he refused to allow me to take a promised delivery… without paying in full. I’d already told him I’d get all the money to him after the performance, once I’d been paid myself, but… but he took great delight in refusing, and packing me off out of his house like a scolded child. He said he’d give me what I wanted only when I’d handed over the money.’
Angelo pushes his fingers through his hair.
‘Go on,’ Agostino says.
Glancing at him, then dropping his gaze to the floor again, Angelo says, ‘He let me have one tiny bottle, part-full, to last me until I saw him again, but I tripped on the way back to the wagons and broke it and lost the contents, so when we arrived at Franceschina, I was pretty near desperate. I spoke to da Correggio and asked him for the bottles he’d promised me, but he was adamant. Said he didn’t want to deal with me any more. He taunted me – he’d had a big delivery from Switzerland the day before, he told
me, but he’d decided to keep it, and to sell it on to more… more… reliable payers. I couldn’t bear the thought of doing without, though, so I… I suggested an alternative way of paying him. Something I thought would catch his attention. And it did.’
A log crumbles in the big fireplace, sending a shower of sputtering red out onto the rush-strewn hearth. Federico reaches out a foot and presses his heel down upon the tiny glowing specks.
Angelo glances at Sofia, but looks away quickly. ‘I had seen him watching… watching Sofia earlier in the day. I’d seen how he was looking at her. It gave me an idea.’ Angelo’s voice is now almost inaudible and he is massaging one hand with the fingers of the other, pushing the ball of his thumb fiercely into the opposite palm. ‘I suggested to him that I could… steer Sofia his way after the show. I think that was how I phrased it to him.’
Sofia’s mouth drops open. Her skin is prickling and her lips feel cold. She seems to have forgotten how to blink, and her eyes quickly begin to sting as she stares at Angelo. Beppe mutters something she cannot hear. His hold on her hand is now so tight it is almost painful. She wriggles her fingers and he starts, glances at her, then lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.
Swallowing twice, Angelo pulls in a couple of long breaths before continuing. Other than his voice, the room is in total silence. ‘Sebastiano seemed excited by the idea. He agreed that… in return for an hour of Sofia’s time, I could have a bottle.’ He turns to Beppe. ‘Obviously, I needed to get you out of the way, so I went out to the wagons… and…’
Beppe shakes his head slowly, and Sofia can hear him whispering, almost inaudibly, ‘No – no, you can’t have done…’
‘I cut the dog. Cut its leg.’
Everyone in the room draws in a shocked breath. Cosima says, ‘No!’
Beppe begins to rise to his feet, but Sofia grabs his wrist and he sits back down without a word.
‘Once I’d done it, I let the dog out of the wagon and shooed it over towards the kitchen entrance of the castle. There were people there. I saw someone take hold of it and carry it indoors, then I went back to the banqueting hall and told you the animal had been injured.’
Memories of that evening, sharp as if they had happened an hour since, flood into Sofia’s mind and her pulse races.
‘Moments later,’ Angelo says now, ‘I saw da Correggio get up with Sofia’s hand in his. I knew what was going to happen. I could have stopped it but I needed a dose so badly by then that I knew I wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize the deal.’
He stops, and breathes deeply for a few seconds.
‘He and Sofia left the room, and before long the rest of us were all talking about going off up to the chambers we had been given, and sleeping. My mind was filled with pictures of what must be happening between Sofia and Sebastiano. Beppe came back in with the dog in his arms and asked where Sofia was. I didn’t say – and nobody else knew. He left the room again straight away.’
Remembering her struggles with Correggio in his darkened study, Sofia shivers, feeling nauseous.
‘Then, a few moments later, just as we were leaving the banqueting room, Beppe came racing in saying that Sebastiano had gone for Sofia and that he – Beppe – had hit him and all but knocked him out. I panicked, terrified that I was not going to get the laudanum I had been promised. Sebastiano had not had his time with Sofia – and on top of this, he had been attacked by one of the troupe. I couldn’t imagine he would agree to give it to me.’ He winces. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near him, but – oh God! – I wanted that dose so badly by then, it was as though there was someone just behind me, goading me into doing it. Beppe was trying to get everyone out and I should have just gone too. But I didn’t.’
He draws in a long breath and sighs it out again slowly.
‘I ran off towards where Beppe said it had happened, and found the study with little difficulty. Sebastiano was there, just like Beppe had said, still sprawled on the floor, swearing foully and clutching his face. His nose was bleeding. I confronted him. “I’ve kept to my side of the bargain,” I said. “It’s not my fault things went wrong. You owe me what you promised. I’ll help you upstairs, if that’s where it is.” He laughed at me. Sitting there in the dust on the floor, he laughed at me and said I was… I was… said I was pathetic. Said I couldn’t even manage a simple pimping job without cocking it up, and that he wouldn’t ever deal with me again.’
There are tears in Angelo’s eyes now and his voice is shaking.
‘He stood up, steadying himself against the bedpost, still laughing, then bent to pick up his doublet, which was on the floor. And… I hit him. I did it without thinking. I was so angry with him, and so desperate. I picked up an iron candlestick from the table and swung it around and hit him with it. It caught him on the back of the head and he went down. There was a row of bottles on the table – I pulled a cork and sniffed to make sure it was what I wanted, then grabbed what I could fit into my pockets… and ran.’
No one speaks for several minutes. The only sounds in the room are those from the softly crackling fire.
Angelo turns enormous eyes to Agostino. ‘You wanted the truth, and you have had it. So: when will you be informing the authorities?’
Agostino’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Sofia looks from him to Angelo; Angelo is staring at him, silently demanding an answer he cannot possibly want to hear.
No one speaks or moves.
Another log shifts and falls; this time a little knot of wood bounces out onto the hearth. Once again, it is Federico who reaches forward. Picking up the still burning fragment between finger and thumb, he flicks it back into the blaze.
Beppe draws in a breath. ‘We could hold a congedo,’ he says into the stifling silence.
Agostino’s head snaps around. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘A congedo.’ He pauses. ‘It’s a possible alternative course of action, if you don’t like the idea of handing a fellow actor over to the podestà. Which, even now, I don’t think I like very much at all.’
‘A congedo? But… but we’ve never had to do such a thing. I’ve never heard of one being done in my lifetime, and —’
‘Perhaps no one has deserved it in your lifetime.’
Agostino looks stricken. Cosima reaches across and takes his hand, and at her touch he seems to rally. He holds Beppe’s gaze for several seconds, then nods. ‘Yes, Beppe, you’re right. Though I’m not sure I know…’
‘I’ve heard it described.’Niccolò clears his throat. ‘I know what should happen.’ He looks grave. ‘There can be no going back once it has begun, though, so you must be very certain you want it to go ahead.’
Agostino breathes deeply three, four, five times, then nods. Turning to each troupe member in turn as he speaks, he says, ‘I think Beppe’s right. I cannot contemplate deliberately handing a fellow performer over to the authorities – whatever he has done.’
Remembering her terrible, fear-soaked hours in the locked room in Bologna, Sofia glances over to Angelo, imagining the thoughts that must be fighting themselves in his mind. His expression, however, is unreadable. In the flickering candlelight, she thinks, he looks like an exquisite statue.
‘Do you all agree with Beppe’s suggestion, that a congedo is an alternative?’
There is a murmur of agreement from everyone in the room. Sofia, however, says quietly to Beppe, ‘What is this? What does it mean?’
‘It’s for the best. Watch, and you’ll see.’
Agostino coughs, and seems to be on the point of speaking again, when Cosima stands and says, ‘Before we begin anything, perhaps we should eat. Our hosts have been kind enough to provide for us, and we are letting their good food go cold. They will think us ungrateful if we leave what they have provided.’
Everyone nods, without speaking. In silence, Cosima puts sliced meat, braised vegetables and torn quarters of bread onto plates and hands them out, one by one. The food, which had been hot on delive
ry, has cooled somewhat and congealed, but everyone in the room eats without comment. Only Angelo shakes his head as a plate is handed to him, and sits, wordlessly fiddling with the ring on his little finger, turning it around and around, pulling it up to the swell of the joint and pushing it back down again.
‘Very well,’ Agostino says a little while later, after the empty plates have been neatly stacked on one of the trays, and the cups that had contained ale have been put to one side. ‘It’s time. Niccolò, can you advise as to how we should best begin?’
‘It’s like the scelta ceremony in reverse,’ Niccolò says quietly, ‘only now the person accused must speak for himself. No one can speak on his behalf.’
The expression on Niccolò’s face is so grave and his eyes so dark and hollowed that Sofia fancies for a moment that it is Fosca who stands before her ready to do… whatever is about to be done. She watches as Niccolò leans in close to Agostino and mutters an inaudible explanation of how the ceremony should proceed and, as Agostino nods, images from her own scelta ceremony flood into her mind; she puts the corner of her thumb into her mouth and bites at a shred of skin; it tears as she pulls at it, and a small bead of blood swells.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 42