The people now lining the streets laugh and catcall and shout encouragement. One small boy runs out into the street and, with a look of great daring, pokes his tongue out at Beppe. Beppe back-flips again in shock, then pokes his tongue out in return. The little boy doubles up with laughter and runs back into the crowd to a spattering of applause.
Lidia, driving the furthest wagon, calls out to them, ‘We perform this afternoon in the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana. Don’t miss it! The Foolish Notary – we start in two hours! Come and join us!’
The crowd cheer and wave. Several children begin to run alongside the wagons.
Two people are riding, one on either side of the wagons, on a pair of pretty dark brown ponies: Cosima, and a young man with features of such symmetrical perfection, he might have been modelled in marble. This is Angelo. Both Cosima’s dress and Angelo’s glittering, jewelled doublet and breeches are a vivid, joyous red. Both are beaming and waving at the crowds with regal dignity and Cosima is throwing flowers from a basket on her arm.
His face split in a wide smile, Agostino is standing up in the foremost wagon, reins in one hand, and with his other arm around an old man with sparse grey hair and reddened cheeks. He calls out to the crowd, ‘Signori and signore, it’s here at last! The moment you have all been waiting for for months! The wait is at an end! The Coraggiosi will perform this afternoon, in the piazza, in little more than a couple of hours’ time. Here in the shadows of that august and hallowed establishment, the university…’ Agostino gives a deep bow and the crowd cheers. He continues in a voice now mournful and slow. ‘Here we shall enact for you a terrible, sad tale: the catastrophic demise of an eminent professor of philosophy, a man so steeped in learning that, like a cabbage left long in a butt of brine, his brains have… pickled.’
Someone in the crowd whoops and shouts and people around him laugh.
‘And here he is!’ Agostino claps his companion on the shoulder. The old man – Giovanni Battista – shakes his head, his expression one of pompous disbelief.
‘Is this man not every inch the great scholar?’ Agostino shouts, turning first to one side of the street, and then the other. ‘But you must come and see for yourselves this afternoon just how quickly it becomes clear that sometimes knowing too much can be as dangerous as knowing too little. Look, for example, at that pair of idiots…’ He points forwards towards Beppe and Vico, who break off their continuing altercation to bow extravagantly to right and left, grinning widely to loud applause. ‘Could it be that a couple of empty-heads like these come off best in a battle with the academic establishment? Come to the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana this afternoon, and, in the shadow of the Two Towers, you will find out for yourselves!’
He stops. Seeing a familiar face in the crowd, he points and waves. ‘Niccolò! Niccolò Zanetti! My good friend! Purveyor of the most extraordinary medicaments to the people of Emilia-Romagna since goodness knows when! How excellent to see you! Will you be coming to see us in the piazza this afternoon?’
A slight figure in a dark grey doublet takes off a tall black hat and waves it energetically. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Make sure you come and find us – it’s been too long since we last saw you.’
Niccolò Zanetti waves again. ‘I’ll be there, amico.’
‘I’m sorry, signorina, I can’t help you,’ the big tavern-owner says, shaking his head. ‘I’ve neither the money nor the need for anyone. I only offered you the pot-wash last night because I couldn’t bear to turn you out of the tavern in weather like that.’
Sofia looks up at Alberto’s great round face. She forces a smile. ‘Thank you anyway, signore. You’ve been very kind,’ she says. ‘I’ll not take up any more of your time.’
‘Listen,’ Alberto says quietly, jerking his head a fraction in an invitation for Sofia to come near enough to share a confidence. ‘Come here.’
She takes a step towards him.
‘Listen,’ he says again. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you what you need. But…’ Hesitating, he says, ‘Here – have this. Go on, take it.’ Pushing a hand down into a pocket in his breeches, he pulls out a small leather pouch. ‘It’s not much…’ He gives the bag a quick shake and the contents chink. ‘Please. I’d like you to have it, signorina. It’s not much, but…’ He tails off.
Holding out a hand, her face flaming, Sofia takes the little purse from him. She tries to smile again, but her face feels stiff and heavy and her mouth seems unwilling to move. She pecks a quick nod, now unable to meet Alberto’s eye. ‘Thank you again,’ she mumbles. ‘I think I should go now.’
And, stumbling over a stool in her haste to leave, she lifts the latch on the tavern door and hurries out into the street and away towards the centre of the city. With the bag of coins tucked into her belt, she walks along for several minutes, her thoughts in turmoil.
Where now? And what to do? Fingering through the contents of Alberto’s money-bag, she decides there should be enough for a couple of meals and another night somewhere. But where? And what then? What will happen to her when the money runs out? Alberto has been so very kind, she thinks, but even if she ekes it out carefully, she cannot see his money lasting her more than a couple of days. Panic begins to swell in her throat at the thought of the only option that seems to be left to her if she is not to starve. She holds her breath, fighting back tears. She cannot do it – especially after last night. Even contemplating the prospect of unknown hands fumbling with her clothing, pushing their way up into her skirts, the feel of unknown lips on hers – it makes her feel sick. She thinks of the man in the bed in the tavern room, and then pictures the glistening mouth of her accuser in Modena, ringed around with hair and smelling of ale and rotten teeth. Of what will they smell and taste, these men who might want to pay to touch her – and to have her touch them? And what might they ask her to do? Would she even understand their requests? Will they laugh at her if she does not? She has never so much as kissed anyone. Once, in a tavern, Sofia overheard a whore laughing drunkenly to a friend about some of the things she had done with her ‘tricks’… Sofia presses a fisted hand to her mouth and swallows uncomfortably.
The narrow, winding street she is in suddenly opens out into the vast Piazza Maggiore: a wide space dominated by a series of castellated colonnades and already bustling with life. Sofia slows her pace, staring around her, her anxieties momentarily pushed aside in the face of such a vivid and enticing sight. She begins to make her way around the northern edge of the square, gazing about as she walks.
Fish merchants and poultry-vendors are busy setting up their stalls and laying out their wares: mournful-eyed sardines lie in depressed-looking rows on piles of glittering salt; boxes of angry crayfish with tightly strapped, waving claws jostle for room beside baskets of squawking chickens; and on hooks hang clusters of rabbits and several limp ducks. On one stall a wet tangle of octopus tentacles gleams in the fitful light like a melting Medusa.
A little way down the colonnade, a long table is stacked with books: some big, fat, heavy, bound in brightly coloured leather; others smaller, with scuffed wooden covers. One or two are lying open, showing dark woodcut illustrations, but most stand upright, spine out, ranked neatly along their table. Their owner, a tall man in a black doublet and breeches, sits on a high-legged stool behind the books, one large tome lying open in the palm of one of his long-fingered hands. Engrossed in what he is reading, he seems entirely uninterested in his surroundings and equally unaware of any potential customers.
A scrawny young man hurries past Sofia with a bulging basket on his back. He stops just near her, swings the basket down onto the ground and opens it. She watches as he pulls from it a dark green cloth, which he spreads across the cobbles; then, reaching back down into the basket, he brings out bright handfuls of ribbons, buttons, laces, glittering beads and several pairs of embroidered sleeves, which he starts to lay out across his cloth. Whistling softly, he sits cross-legged on the ground behind his display, reaching from time to
time to tweak and fiddle. Lastly, he takes from the basket a small iron bowl, which he places at his side. Pulling a few coins from a pocket in his breeches, he drops them into the bowl.
Sofia gazes longingly at the ribbons and laces. They are beautiful, vividly coloured and enticing, and she longs to run her fingers through them. The sleeves are exquisite too, she thinks, itching to pick them up and examine them.
‘Want to come and have a look, signorina?’ the young man calls, grinning at her.
Embarrassed to have been noticed, Sofia shrugs. ‘I haven’t any money.’
‘Don’t stop you lookin’…’
Sofia cannot resist. Crouching in front of the young man’s display, she reaches out and picks up a bunch of bright crimson ribbons. They slip between her fingers like water, smooth and cool against her skin. She holds her hand up with the ribbons draped across it, and strokes it along her cheek. They are of a high quality – smooth and fine grained.
The young man watches her. ‘Like them, do you?’
‘How could anyone not like them? They’re beautiful.’
‘Only ten baiocchi for the bunch.’
Sofia shakes her head sadly. ‘I’d love to have them. But I can’t. No money.’
The boy, dressed in dirty breeches and a doublet several sizes too large for him, stares hard at Sofia for several seconds, his gaze travelling over her bedraggled dress, her uncombed hair and the bandaged hand. He reaches across his display and takes the ribbons from her. Embarrassed, she begins to stand, but the boy says, ‘No, wait. You don’t understand – don’t go!’ He slides a couple from the bunch and holds them out to Sofia. ‘Here, have them. Stitch them onto your sleeve – they’ll look pretty. Or put them in your hair.’
‘But…’ Sofia begins.
‘Come here. I’ll do it for you.’ He holds out an arm, flicking his fingers, beckoning her.
Sofia hesitates, but the boy is now on his feet. Bending over his basket, he pushes both hands down into it and rummages for a moment, then straightens, brandishing a small square of leather. Sofia sees that it is glittering with pins. The boy flaps it towards her. ‘Here – come here, and I’ll…’
She does not move, so he hops nimbly over his display and stands in front of her. Taking back one of the ribbons he has given her, he flips it back and forth a couple of times, creating a four-looped bow. Freeing the loose ends, he holds it by one of the loops between his teeth and pulls a pin from the leather square, which he then pushes back down into his breeches pocket. With the knot of ribbon in one hand, and Sofia’s elbow in the other, he neatly in-and-outs the pin through the ribbon and fastens it to the sleeve near Sofia’s shoulder.
‘There!’ he says, nodding in approval at what he has done. ‘Now the other one.’
He pins the second ribbon.
‘There, now. Fit for a duchess!’ he says, grinning.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind. But you shouldn’t be giving your things away…’
The boy looks suddenly serious. ‘Nah, don’t suppose I should. But, well…’ He shrugs.
Sofia says, ‘I’ll come and find you when I have some money. I’ll pay for the ribbons then. I promise.’
The boy grins again. ‘I’m here quite often,’ he says. ‘Keep looking. And mind them pins when you take your dress off tonight.’
Sofia feels her cheeks burn. The boy’s grin widens and he winks.
Not sure whether to smile or cry, Sofia moves off across the piazza.
Over in the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana, a stage is being erected in the shadow of the Two Towers. Some two dozen trestle supports have already been put in place, and Beppe, Vico, Agostino and the perfect-profiled Angelo are standing one at each corner of a large wooden board. The brightly coloured costumes have gone, and all four men are back in shirts and breeches.
‘On the count of four, then,’ Agostino says. On ‘Four!’ they all lift the board to just above chest height and slide it out across the trestles. Beppe ducks down beneath the board and flips a number of little pivoting pegs into their corresponding holes, to hold the board in place.
‘Ready for the next one?’ Agostino says.
Scrambling out from between the trestles, Beppe nods. The four men repeat the process. Half a dozen times they lift and shift; half a dozen times Beppe crawls under the staging and fixes the boards in place.
‘Go and get the poles, will you?’ Agostino says.
Vico and Beppe run across to the wagons. Three long wooden poles, each about three or four inches in diameter and some ten feet long, have been slung under the biggest of the wagons along with two long coils of rope.
Beppe tugs at the end of one of the poles. It sticks for a moment, and then comes suddenly free so that Beppe stumbles backwards. He eases the whole length of the pole out, lays it on the ground, then pulls the second and third ones free. ‘Can you bring the curtains, Lidia?’ he says as he slings the rope coils around one arm and, together with Vico, picks up the poles. ‘Get Cosima to help you.’
‘Won’t be a moment,’ Lidia says, peering out from inside the largest wagon.
Towards the back edge of the staging three holes have been cut in the boards, one at each corner and one in the middle. Each of the poles has a deep groove a few inches from its top and bottom ends. Laying them down on the ground in parallel, Beppe takes one of the lengths of rope and knots it around each of these grooves. Then, with Vico’s help, he lifts, positions and drops each of the three poles into the holes so that, feet on the ground, they project upwards from the staging some seven feet, like oversized bed-posts, with the rope stretched tautly between them. Beppe takes another length of rope and fastens it around the bottom end of each pole.
Lidia and Cosima appear, carrying between them a big pile of dark cloth. Grunting slightly, they throw their burden down onto the ground, where it lands with a dusty-sounding ‘flump’. Right around the front edge of the staging, at hand-span intervals, is a row of small iron hooks. Lidia and Cosima now begin lifting the cloth up onto the hooks so that it drapes down from the stage to the floor, effectively creating a large hidden storage area below where the actors will perform. As they do this, Beppe, Vico and Angelo are up on the stage, unrolling two huge lengths of canvas, on which are painted two halves of a scene. These they flap up and over the rope, weighting each down on either side with stones placed in little pockets at ground level, so that they hang – fairly evenly – right across the back of the stage, displaying a street scene: recognizably Bologna. A different picture (for a different show) faces out backwards.
Angelo now puts both hands in the small of his back and stretches. ‘I’m going back to the wagons. I need to start getting dressed,’ he says, to no one in particular. Without waiting for a response, he sits on the edge of the stage, then jumps down, landing neatly like a cat.
Nobody comments on his departure, though Vico raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, pushing his lips out and shrugging.
Agostino, standing back on the ground some few yards from the stage, shades his eyes with his hand and stares critically at the effect of the newly placed scenery. After a few seconds’ careful scrutiny, he nods and, muttering to himself, begins to walk back to the wagons.
He takes no notice of Beppe, Vico and Lidia, who are now hurrying from wagon to stage and back, putting into the storage space behind the curtains an odd assortment of items: two buckets, a long string of onions, three chairs, a pile of books, a cloak, a stuffed dog with a string around its neck and Beppe’s ladder, among many other things. Agostino clambers into the smallest of the wagons, to reappear a moment later with a slim leather-bound book in one hand, and a wooden board in a gilt frame tucked under the other arm.
He climbs to the hidden space behind the backdrop and props the board where it will be seen as the actors stand waiting for their entrances. Opening the book, he takes from it a handful of small squares of paper. Perusing these scraps, he places each carefully onto the board in a particular order, pinning each one with a
tack. Once all twenty or so scraps are in place, Agostino stares at the board for several minutes. ‘Good,’ he mutters. ‘That will work very well indeed.’
‘All sorted, Ago?’ Vico says cheerfully as he crouches, knees high like a frog, to push a large plaster cake into the under-stage space.
‘Absolutely, absolutely.’ Agostino glances once more at his board, then climbs back down the little ladder from the stage to the ground. ‘Is everything where it should be?’
Lidia crawls out from under the stage, her skirts bundled in her arms. Getting awkwardly to her feet, she puts her arms around Agostino’s neck and kisses his cheek. ‘Stop fussing. Everything is exactly where it ought to be, caro – where you’ve told us it must be – where we need it to be.’
Beppe has balanced a walking stick on its tip on his index finger; his eyes are fixed upon its wobbling end. ‘Everything will be wonderful, as always,’ he says. ‘And, as always, it’ll be thanks to you.’
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 5
