The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  ‘Good man, Alberto!’ somebody calls.

  The big tavern-owner nods in the man’s direction but makes no comment.

  Sofia follows him. ‘Excuse me, signore,’ she says as he stops and lowers his bulk onto a stool which looks far too flimsy to support him.

  He raises an eyebrow and inclines his head.

  ‘Er… might you have a room spare? Somewhere I could stay for the night? And something to eat?’

  Alberto’s gaze takes in Sofia’s filthy clothes and sodden hair. ‘You need to go and sit yourself down near that fire, signorina,’ he says, pointing towards the hearth. ‘Get yourself dry.’

  ‘Thank you. And the room, signore?’

  ‘What money do you have? I’ve just the one bed upstairs for travellers. A place in it and a blanket can be yours for half a scudo. And a bite to eat for fifty baiocchi. I’ve a stew on the fire.’

  Sofia holds out her coins.

  Alberto moves them about on her palm with one thick finger. ‘Not quite enough,’ he says. ‘Do you have any more?’

  Sofia swallows awkwardly and shakes her head.

  ‘Well, perhaps…’ The big man pauses. He raises an eyebrow. ‘… you can pay the extra… some other way?’

  Sofia’s mouth opens a little, but she says nothing.

  Her heart races.

  Alberto sucks his teeth for a moment, then he frowns and says, ‘Perhaps you might see your way to washing a few pots for me?’ He nods towards her fistful of coins. ‘You have enough there for a meal. Then you could wash a few of my dirty pots to earn a bed for the night. How does that sound? Could you do that?’

  Sofia almost laughs. ‘Oh yes – with pleasure, signore.’

  Alberto smiles. ‘Eat first, I think. Don’t you? Then do the pots.’

  The makeshift bed in the tavern’s upstairs room is low and very wide – wide enough for at least three sleepers. Straw-mattressed, its foot-end is strewn with a jumble of shabby blankets. The one small window in the room is unshuttered, and the steep-sloped ceiling is merely the underneath of the roof-tiles; smears of lime mortar show between the tiles, and chinks of the night sky are winking through at various places above Sofia’s head. Every now and again, she feels the cold prickle of a raindrop which has found its way through into the room.

  Sofia drops the big folded sheet Alberto has just handed her. It lands on the floor with a whump and the candle on the shelf gutters in the draught, then settles again.

  She picks up all the blankets and the three limp pillows and heaps them on the floor. Standing at one side of the bed, she flaps out the sheet and watches as it settles across the uneven mattress. The far edge flips back on itself, and Sofia shakes it out again a couple of times until it lies flat. She works her way around the bed, tucking the sheet in under the mattress, wincing a couple of times as her damaged finger takes more weight than is comfortable.

  She replaces the pillows side by side across the generous width of the bed, and turns to the blankets. There are six of them; Sofia folds four and places them neatly on the sheet at the foot of the bed, ready for any other sleepers who might come into the room. Picking up the other two, she blows out the candle, then wraps the blankets around her and lies down on the far side of the mattress, fully dressed, cocooned in the shabby wool, which smells of sweat and dust, of unwashed skin and faintly, faintly of sheep. She curls on her side, drawing her knees up. Her skirts are almost dry now, warmed through in front of the tavern fire, and her belly feels full at last – full of the mutton stew and bread Alberto has given her in return for her begged-for coins.

  Her eyes seem not to want to close, so she turns her head and stares up at the needle-points of light between the tiles. Her thoughts fragment and disconnect as she moves her eyes from point to point.

  She has no home.

  No money.

  Nowhere to go. She has become a stray… like that cat.

  She has nothing. Nothing at all. Where should she look for work? For lodgings? How is she to pay for anything for the next few weeks, while she cannot sew? She begins to fiddle with the strapping on her broken finger. The finger feels hot now it is no longer wet – hot and swollen, and itchy within the binding. Sofia picks at a tiny strand from the tuft of wool, pulling at it, teasing it out; but it feels suddenly as though the whole thing might come loose, and she lets go quickly, pushing it back down inside the strapping with the tip of her other forefinger.

  The door to the upstairs room creaks open.

  A man comes in, carrying a candle, shielding the flame with cupped fingers. He is short and stocky, with sparse hair and a doughy face. Someone whom Sofia saw earlier downstairs, she realizes, but of whom she had taken no notice.

  She holds her breath, draws her blankets in more tightly around herself.

  The man sets the candle down on the shelf, next to the stub of the one Sofia has just blown out. He turns to look at her. She catches his gaze, then closes her eyes tightly.

  ‘I know you’re not asleep,’ he says, quietly.

  She does not move.

  ‘I was watching you in the tavern room. I saw you leave to go upstairs.’

  Sofia remains silent. She opens her eyes a fraction, wanting to see what the man might be doing, hoping he will not notice. He is taking off his doublet, his gaze on her face. She does not move. The man sits down on the end of the bed and pulls off his boots; the straw stuffing in the mattress scrunches beneath him as he moves. He picks up and shakes out one of the blankets; then, crawling across the bed, he lies down next to Sofia, pulling the covering up and over himself.

  His breath smells of grappa. He lays a hand on her shoulder, pressing gently with his palm, lifting his fingers as though he were going to stroke up towards her face. But Sofia turns right over without a word, away from him, clutching her blankets around her.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ he murmurs, pressing himself up close to her back and replacing his hand on her upper arm, gripping it tightly this time. ‘I’m not asking you to do it for nothing. I wouldn’t do that.’

  Feeling the man now stroking down towards her elbow, she jerks her arm backwards, pushing him off.

  He hesitates for a moment. With a lurch of her stomach, she feels him pick up a curling strand of her hair; he tucks it behind her ear, then runs his hand down to cup her shoulder again. ‘It wouldn’t take long,’ he whispers. ‘And I’ll make it worth your while. I have a whole scudo… p’raps two I can give you. But we’ll need to be quick – someone else might come.’

  Two scudi. Four nights’ bed and board here at this tavern.

  Pulling the blankets more tightly around her, she draws her knees up towards her chest, curling herself into a ball – and then the door creaks open once more.

  A stripe of yellowish light from the staircase falls across the bed; then it narrows and vanishes as the door is pushed shut again. The man edges away from her, swearing softly under his breath.

  Sofia holds her breath. Another one? She feels sick. She cannot fight two of them. Her back is to the door; she dares not turn to look at the newcomer, but strains her ears, trying to hear anything that might give her an indication of what sort of a person the new arrival might be.

  His movements are slow; the footsteps she hears are shuffling and a little unsteady. Oh God, Sofia thinks, her heart beating so fast now she feels light-headed, if he’s drunk… Please, I can’t fight off two men. Then the newcomer coughs, clears his throat, and coughs again, and Sofia almost cries with relief. This is an old man’s cough: a sound of frailty and ill health. A noise of no threat.

  The man next to her has turned his back to her and is lying still. After a moment’s immobility, though, she feels his body start to jerk. It is a muffled, furtive movement, rhythmic and intense, and every few seconds he lets out a barely audible gasp, stifling the sound in his pillow, clearly trying to remain unheard. Sofia screws her eyes shut and holds her breath. The man’s back trembles against hers and the straw mattress rustles under him. Pulling her blanke
t up, Sofia presses it in against her ears. After a moment or two, the man shudders and is still.

  In the silence that follows, Sofia becomes aware of the old man, who is still on his feet. Turning slightly, she looks over her shoulder and starts to watch him in the flickering candlelight. Chin tucked down to his chest, he is taking his time in unfastening his doublet with stiff, unbending fingers – Sofia can hear the soft scrape and tick of the laces being pulled through their eyelet holes – and then he places the doublet down on the chair near the door. It slips off and falls to the floor; the old man grunts softly as he bends to pick it up again.

  ‘Blow the candle out, Nonno,’ the man in the bed mutters.

  Shuffling footfalls cross the room, the old man puffs out the flame with a wheezing gasp and darkness fills the room.

  Sofia lies still, tensed and hardly breathing, for several minutes, dreading the thought that, despite what he has just done, the man next to her might resume his attentions in the dark, but the seconds pass and nothing happens. Still she does not move. The old man begins to snore softly on the far side of the bed – a quiet bubbling in the back of his throat – and Sofia finds herself listening intently, counting the seconds in between the snores. From the man next to her, there is only ragged breathing. Sofia tries to shift position without drawing attention to herself: her shoulder and hip are stiff now, from lying on the same side without moving, but she dares not turn towards her companion, fearful that he might interpret the move as an invitation.

  Finally, she can bear it no longer, and, turning as smoothly as she can, she shifts position to face in towards her companion. The man’s back is bulky, his shirt creased and warmly damp. Heat is coming from him and Sofia smells the prickling bitterness of stale sweat. Staring up at the light-speckled ceiling for a moment, her eyes begin to feel leaden; she closes them.

  She will, she thinks, ask the tavern-owner for more work in the morning. That will be a place to start from. And if Alberto has nothing for her, well, she will at least have had a meal and a sleep. A sleep… she has to sleep: each breath is fluttering in her chest. But how can she sleep, lying here next to a man who wanted to… wanted to… What if he tries again? While she sleeps? What if he decides that the old man will not wake, if he tries his luck again? The thought makes her feel sick.

  Here, in this bed, next to this heavy, sweat-smelling, unattractive stranger, Sofia imagines having agreed to the man’s earlier suggestion; she pictures herself naming a price, the man laying his hands on her, unfastening her dress, pushing his way up under her skirts. She sees the greedy look in his eyes as he edges himself into position. Her face distorting with disgust, she imagines herself touching him. She hears the chink of coins thrown down onto the pillow and imagines his muttered thanks as he pulls away and adjusts his clothes.

  Yes. She will ask Alberto for work in the morning. That will be a start, she thinks. Running through how she might frame her request, she feels herself sliding away into sleep.

  4

  The Castello della Franceschina, a few miles outside Bologna

  ‘Sebastiano, please, listen to me!’

  Sebastiano da Correggio picks up a silver goblet from the heavily laden table in front of him and flings it at the woman seated on the opposite side. She ducks, gasping in shock as the goblet smacks against the wall behind her and bounces down to the floor, splattering wall, floorboards and the sleeve of her dress with red wine.

  ‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do!’ he shouts, his mouth twisted with anger. Flecks of spit land on the table in front of him, darkening the damasked linen cloth. ‘You pathetic, inebriate bitch – why the hell should I listen to you?’

  The woman bites her lip. Tilting her chin up, she is clearly struggling not to cry; fat tears gleam along her lashes. The fingers of her left hand tighten around the stem of her cup, her knuckles standing out white. ‘Please, Sebastiano,’ she says again, in little more than a whisper this time.

  ‘Did I not say to you that you were not to tell anyone?’ da Correggio says through gritted teeth.

  The woman says nothing.

  ‘But such an instruction was clearly too complex for someone of your limited intelligence to grasp.’

  The woman flinches. She stands up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Saying nothing, the woman walks around the end of the table towards where da Correggio is sitting. Crouching down next to his chair, clutching its arm with both hands, she gazes up into his face. ‘I can explain, Sebastiano.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself!’ Shoving his chair back from her, Sebastiano da Correggio lifts his right arm and swipes at her backhanded. The blow catches her across the cheek with a crack like a horsewhip; she cries out and stumbles backwards, banging her shoulder hard on the edge of the table as she falls.

  ‘Get up!’ da Correggio says. ‘It’s pathetic! What do you think you’re doing grovelling down there like a dog?’

  Grabbing the edge of the table, the woman pulls herself to her feet, pressing her hand to the side of her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.

  Da Correggio reaches out and grasps her wrist. ‘Listen, Maddalena,’ he says, ‘you know as well as I do that I want to keep my sources a secret. You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone. You’ve let me down.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Maddalena whispers. ‘I only told Lisabeta —’

  ‘Your fucking maidservant?’ Da Correggio lets go of her arm and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘One of the loosest mouths in Emilia-Romagna, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘It was only because I’m so impressed with your plans.’ Maddalena is now almost inaudible.

  ‘You know I want to be very careful with how the information spreads. If other possible dealers start to realize what potential this liquid has beyond the curative, then my position will become precarious in the extreme.’ Da Correggio turns away from her, adding in a much softer voice, more to himself than to Maddalena, ‘She will need to be made to remain silent.’

  Maddalena stiffens, but says nothing.

  Several long minutes pass. Then Sebastiano da Correggio reaches across the table, snatches up Maddalena’s cup and drains its contents. Maddalena stands unmoving, her hip pressed against the edge of the table, her gaze fixed upon da Correggio’s face as he stares into the now-empty cup.

  ‘I’m sorry I made you angry,’ she whispers.

  Da Correggio grunts.

  ‘I never meant to —’

  ‘Do you know,’ da Correggio says loudly, as though Maddalena has not spoken, ‘I think this might all have gone on long enough. I think it might just be time to let your cuckold of a husband know exactly what sort of a needy little whore his wife really is.’

  Maddalena wails and drops to her knees, clutching the arm of da Correggio’s chair. ‘God, no – please, Sebastiano! I want to be with you. You can’t!’

  ‘Oh, I think I can. If I choose to. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Please! I beg you, Sebastiano —’

  Da Correggio lifts a hand, palm towards her, to silence her. ‘Be quiet. That’s enough. You want me to keep your secrets? Well, you’d better fucking well learn to keep mine. You know what you need to do to persuade me not to talk to him, don’t you?’

  Maddalena hangs her head.

  5

  Bologna

  Not long after midday, the four painted wagons of the Coraggiosi troupe rumble through the great gate of San Sotero, making their exuberant and noisy way along the Via Emilia towards the centre of Bologna.

  Much to everyone’s surprise, the rain is holding off. The sky, as Agostino pointed out that morning, resembles nothing so much as the sagging underside of a heavy grey mattress, but, as yet, to the delight of the Coraggiosi, the streets are still dry.

  Beppe is out in front with Vico. Masked once more, but no longer in his tattered shirt and breeches, he is wearing a long jacket and leggings of multi-coloured diamond-shaped patches, and has a soft black woollen hat on the back of his head. He is
arguing vehemently with Vico. Vico – shorter, stockier than Beppe – is also masked, and is dressed in what appears to be a couple of grubby old flour sacks cinched in at the waist with a length of rope; he is clearly coming off second-best in the altercation. Hopping from foot to foot in a counterfeit rage, Beppe shakes his fist at Vico, chattering at him in what seem at first to be recognizable words, but in fact make no sense at all. He grabs one of his friend’s hands. Vico tries to snatch it back – but to the two men’s apparent astonishment, their hands seem to have instantly fused together. The two men pull and push and struggle to free themselves, dodging in and out of the path of the wagons, to cheers from the watching people. Beppe lifts first one leg over his and Vico’s clasped arms and then the other, tangling himself in knots, ending by flipping head over heels and landing lightly on his feet, waggling both newly freed hands as though they have been burned.