The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  ‘No, don’t move. I’ll get it. What is it?’

  ‘In a little box in the patchwork bag under the bunk in the yellow wagon…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There are two long dark red ribbons. I was given them just before I met you all – I’ve kept them safe since then, and I’d like to use them now, I think.’

  Beppe raises an eyebrow.

  Sofia smiles. ‘Don’t worry – it was only a boy I’d never met before, selling laces and ribbons and sleeves and things. Nothing more than that. He was just kind. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ll believe you…’ Beppe grins. ‘Now don’t move. I won’t be a moment.’

  He is back moments later with the ribbons in his hand. He holds them up and Sofia nods. Without a word, Beppe weaves the ribbons in and out of her hair and tweaks them so that the ends lie along the nape of her neck. Then, standing back, he appraises his handiwork. ‘Cosima,’ he says, ‘Can she use your mirror for a moment?’

  Cosima holds it out without looking around.

  Beppe hands it over.

  For a second it lies on her lap, a flattened ellipse, reflecting the sky. Then she lifts it, and the ellipse swells to a circle. A stranger looks back at her: a wide-eyed, surprised-looking stranger with wildly curly black hair. This unfamiliar woman looks oddly beautiful, Sofia thinks, nothing at all like her usual self. She turns to Beppe, whose broad smile of approval suddenly fades. He lets out a low whistle. ‘You look enchanting,’ he says very quietly, his gaze dipping to her mouth.

  Then comes a whoop from Vico. ‘Look at our new Colombina, Coraggiosi!’ he says loudly and cheerfully. ‘Cara, you look delicious! I’m not surprised Beppe can’t keep his hands off you!’

  There is a ripple of laughter. Everyone turns to look at her. Applause breaks out, and a jumble of affectionate praise. Sofia’s face burns and she knows she must be colouring underneath the chalk. Her heart swells.

  15

  Yesterday’s final two rehearsals went well, Sofia tells herself as she stands behind the backcloth, listening to the scene unfolding. Very well. She didn’t forget a single line, and, according to Ago, did not put a foot wrong. There is no reason why she should not be able to remember everything, and perform as well now as she did then.

  But she has reckoned without the noise of the audience: the laughing, the clapping, the oohing and aahing as the story of the play unfolds. From the other side of the backdrop it sounds to Sofia as though a thousand people must have gathered in the little piazza – though Lidia, who has been out there already, says it’s perhaps a hundred. Oh dear God – a hundred people – watching her! She feels sick. Her heart is thudding in her throat, and her chest – tightly laced as it is into Colombina’s pretty grey dress – feels so constricted she wonders that she can get a breath in at all. The chalk and pearl is making her eyes itch and she badly wants to rub them – or at least press against them with her knuckles – but Beppe has already taken her by the wrists twice, and told her firmly not to touch her face at all.

  ‘You look perfect – and you certainly won’t look anything like if you smear your eyebrows all over your face.’

  Beppe is on stage right now; she cannot see him, but can hear him arguing with Federico. She looks up at the scenario board. Agostino’s little canovaccii – the scraps of information that remind the actors which scenes are which, in which order – are all pinned in place. Because she still cannot read easily, Beppe has pointed out her scenes to her, marking them with a cross so that she can count the entrances and exits. Her first scene is imminent.

  Sofia cannot decide whether the anxiety that is now flooding her head, her chest, her belly and her limbs is pleasant or not. At one moment, it feels horribly like that sickening terror she remembers so clearly as she ran for her life from that wet-mouthed, thick-necked man in Modena; and then the next, the sensation resembles more closely the swooping anticipation she feels in her insides now every time she thinks about Beppe. Is this confusion what the players experience every time they perform?

  Cosima lifts the backcloth and steps off the stage, sucking in a long breath and slowly letting it out through pursed lips like a soundless whistle. She waggles her hands and closes her eyes. Opening them again, she smiles at Sofia. ‘Any moment now… are you ready, cara?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sofia lies, trying to smile.

  ‘You will be wonderful, my lovely,’ Cosima says. ‘We are so lucky that Niccolò found you and brought you to us. Enjoy it out there – everyone who is watching certainly will. One moment… there goes Vico. Now it’s you. Off you go!’ And with a swift, light kiss on Sofia’s cheek, Cosima lifts the hanging to one side and puts a hand behind Sofia’s back.

  Not quite pushing her on to the stage, but almost.

  Everyone assured her earlier that she would not be aware of the audience as individuals. You’ll hardly see them, in fact – best just to pretend they’re not there, they said. But as she takes her first step through the backcloth and out onto the trestle boards, she can see them all… every one of them… in minute detail… and they seem to suck the very breath from her lungs as she looks around at them.

  Beppe has vanished off to the side somewhere. Giovanni Battista with his long black academic gown straining over the big padded belly and Federico in his long-nosed mask and a ridiculously exaggerated military jacket and hat are both staring at her.

  ‘There’s Colombina. She’ll tell us,’ Federico says stoutly, pointing at her. ‘She’ll know the answer.’

  ‘Pooh, she’s nothing but a green girl,’ Giovanni Battista says with a tut of dismissal. ‘How could she know any more than we do?’

  ‘That’s the point, you fool – she’s a girl. She’ll know.’

  Giovanni Battista shakes his head. ‘Very well. Signorina Colombina, tell us. Here is the problem: should a woman marry a military man… or an educated man? Brawn or brains? Bravado or wisdom? Which do you think is preferable? Beware – don’t jump to any hasty conclusions: a woman’s lasting happiness may depend upon your answer.’

  Sofia opens her mouth. For a second she has no idea what to say and she cannot imagine how she is even going to manage a wordless squeak, let alone the lines she cannot seem to remember. An endless moment hangs frozen in the air between her and the two men. And then she knows, and the lines are there, and she says, ‘Brawn or brains? Hmm… let me think.’ Putting a finger to her lips, she contemplates the conundrum. ‘Should I prefer unthinking muscle, or a well-read weakling?’

  Federico and Giovanni Battista take a step nearer as Sofia tries to make up her mind. They stand one on either side of her. She looks from the one to the other, sizing up the phallic nose on the one side and the rotund belly on the other. Then, running the tip of her tongue along her lip she says archly, smiling coquettishly at Federico and touching his sleeve with the tips of her fingers, ‘Brawn. Definitely brawn. A military man would be far more fun, I am sure – at least in the short term.’

  The audience laughs as one, and several people whistle. One man shouts out, ‘I’m off to join the army!’

  A heart-stopping moment. Sofia is standing behind the backcloth and listening to the conversation unfolding on the other side. She hears her own character’s name mentioned: ‘Colombina would never have been seen with such a villain!’ Beppe says stoutly, and for a breath-held second, her mind seems to empty completely. She stares at the scenario board, and, unable to read the scribbled canovaccii, finds that she is entirely unsure of which scene is coming next. Her head hollows and empties and she cannot imagine how she is going to be able to step through onto the stage. It is as though she has not rehearsed anything – she has no idea what comes next. She is about to let everyone down, and they’ll never let her act again. Her heart begins to thud almost painfully and she has no idea what she should do.

  Footsteps sound on the ladder behind her and she looks around. Angelo has arrived for his scene. Sofia glances at him, then turns back to the (to her) incomprehensible scenario boar
d, inwardly cursing. Of all the members of the troupe, he is the last with whom she would wish to share her trouble. She is only on the stage with Angelo three times, it is true, so that narrows down the possibilities of what is coming next, but the three scenes are very different. Much though she has no wish to do so, she realizes she is going to have to ask him for guidance.

  ‘Angelo,’ she says in an almost silent whisper. ‘I’m… I’m afraid I’m not sure which cano comes next. I’m feeling a little muddled. I’m… I’m…’ She tails off, swallowing uncomfortably.

  Flicking a brief but uncomfortably obvious glance at her breasts, Angelo taps the scenario board and says without smiling, ‘Number twenty-three. You hear Cosima crying, start comforting her and then a couple of minutes later, I’ll come out and…’

  Nodding, the scene floods back into Sofia’s mind, and, feeling slightly sick, she mutters, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have forgotten.’

  Angelo raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve all forgotten things we ought to remember, at some point in our lives.’ There is a flurry of applause from out front, and Angelo, listening intently, says, ‘That’s your cue…’

  ‘More than halfway through,’ Beppe whispers as he and Sofia stand together, behind the backdrop, listening to Agostino and Federico who are debating passionately on the stage. ‘Not long to go and you’ll be a fully fledged actress with a completed performance behind her. And a successful one at that.’

  Sofia smiles, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Seeing this, Beppe is struck again by a fierce desire to kiss her. He takes her hand and grips it tightly. ‘You’ve done so well, lovely girl. So well. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  Considering this, head on one side, Beppe pushes out an appraising lower lip and says, ‘No, I think that’s a fair assessment – I’d say you’re right there. I don’t think you could have done.’

  Smothering a laugh, Sofia goes to kiss him, but he grips her shoulders and holds her away from him, hissing, ‘No! Stop it! You are not to spoil that lovely face. We can kiss all you like afterwards.’

  The thought of this eventuality and what that kissing might lead to sends a juddering twist of longing down into his belly; quite distracted, he all but misses his cue. It is only when Sofia says, ‘Go on!’ and pushes him that he sucks in a short breath, pulls himself together and slips out through the backcloth.

  The applause is still filling the little piazza as the actors straighten from their final bow and slip one by one through the gaps in the backdrop. Sofia’s heart is racing. She has done it; she has fought her way through a whole performance, and, despite one or two moments of blood-chilling fear, has made no mistakes and has even, she dares to hope, pleased the audience. And, singing through her exhilaration, she hears again in her mind Beppe’s words from an hour or so ago: We can kiss all you like afterwards.

  Being the nearest to the gap in the backcloth, she is first off stage after the cast have all taken their bows. Agostino follows immediately behind her and he hugs her tightly. ‘Magnificent, cara, magnificent! You were wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! We must celebrate!’ He kisses the top of her head, releases her and moves on down towards the ladder.

  Sofia stays where she is.

  Cosima and Federico appear next, and each of them, too, embraces Sofia as they pass, and both congratulate her. Then Giovanni Battista and Vico push their way through the gap in the hanging. ‘Well done!’ they both say. Vico adds, ‘Told you you could manage it perfectly well, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did.’

  Vaulting down off the back of the stage, Vico holds a hand out to help Giovanni Battista negotiate the ladder; once the old man is safely on the ground, Vico leans on the ladder, waiting for Lidia. She, however, is busy hugging Sofia. The two stand close-clasped for a moment; then Lidia stands back, holding both of Sofia’s hands in her own. ‘You did it! You were wonderful, and I’m so happy for you.’

  Sofia has to ask her again. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind that I’ve taken —’

  Lidia puts a finger up to Sofia’s mouth to silence her. ‘Stop it! You make a sweet, clever Colombina, and me? Well, I have thoroughly enjoyed spending the afternoon being a rude and lascivious old trout.’

  Sofia laughs.

  ‘Come on, hurry up, we need to get the brazier going and get some ale in.’ Vico clicks his fingers and Lidia, smiling widely at Sofia again, hurries to the ladder to join him.

  Sofia turns towards the gap in the backdrop.

  And then Beppe is there, the last to exit the stage.

  He pushes his mask up and off, knocking his black hat to the floor. His hair is damp and tangled, and he looks tired, but his eyes are shining. ‘You were wonderful,’ he says, putting his arms around her. ‘Just wonderful.’

  And at last their mouths meet.

  Beppe puts one hand behind her head and one in the small of her back; she grips handfuls of the diamond-patterned jacket and presses in as close to him as she can without knocking them both off the edge of the stage.

  ‘Oy!’ someone calls. ‘When you two come up for air, come and join us, will you?’

  Taking his hand from Sofia’s head, Beppe waggles his fingers in acknowledgement, but does not break off from the kiss, and by the time he and Sofia finally draw back from each other, the rest of the troupe have gone back to the wagons, the audience has all but dispersed and the piazza is empty.

  Only one small boy can be seen, standing in the space behind the stage and staring up at the two of them. When Beppe catches his eye and grins at him, he pulls a face and runs away.

  ‘Listen, lovely girl,’ Beppe says now, running his thumb along her cheekbone. ‘Tonight is going to be crowded. We’re performing again tomorrow, so we won’t be dismantling today – we’ll be spending the night in the wagons so we can keep an eye on the staging…’

  Sofia looks at him quizzically.

  ‘… and… well… I don’t want the first time we lie together to be in the wagons.’

  Lie together? Sofia’s heart skips a beat. She stares at him.

  ‘You might have noticed that I always put myself on the far side of any room we’ve shared, or that I make sure I’m in another wagon to the one you’re in…’

  Sofia says nothing but nods, once. This has been a source of anxiety to her for many days.

  ‘Don’t think for a moment it’s been because I’ve wanted to.’

  She can feel her pulse racing.

  Beppe holds her face in his hands. ‘It’s been because I’ve known I wouldn’t be able to bear being that close to you if I had to… had to keep my hands off you.’

  Now imagining Beppe’s hands on her, Sofia swallows. The melting feeling in her belly intensifies.

  ‘We’re off to Montalbano after tomorrow’s performance, aren’t we? For our little holiday. We’ll just have to get through tonight, lovely girl, and then we can find ourselves a quiet place to be alone there.’

  Sofia stares up at him.

  Behind the wagons, the celebrations are already ebullient. The audience, though not enormous, was generous and the takings were pleasing, so there has been a little more than usual to spend on the ale and food which always follow a show. A big wooden platter of meat and bread, a large round cheese, a bowl of apricots and several jugs of ale have been brought over from the tavern on the far side of the piazza, and the members of the Coraggiosi – clustered now on benches around a makeshift table – are already loud in their appreciation of all of it.

  A couple of dozen stubs of candles have been stuck in pots and jars, or directly onto the wood of the table, and the glow from them underlights the faces of every one of the troupe. Wisps of smoke spiral up into the dusk.

  Sofia and Beppe slide in next to Lidia on one side of the table, and the rest of the troupe applaud their arrival enthusiastically. As Beppe puts an arm around Sofia, she leans her head against his shoulder, smiling shyly at the exuberant welcome, feeling as happy as she
can remember being. Ippo the dog, who has slid out from the yellow wagon, has put himself under the table at their feet. His head is hot and heavy on her lap. She absentmindedly scratches his ears and hears him groan softly – a little husky exhalation of pleasure.

  ‘I say it again, and I will say it con gusto to whoever cares to listen, for however long I can hold their attention: you were magnificent, Sofia! Entirely magnificent!’ Agostino has already consumed a fair amount of ale, even in the few short moments that Sofia and Beppe were otherwise occupied on the back of the stage, and he is now gesticulating widely to emphasize his words. On each magnificent he thumps the table with a fist and ale slops from several cups onto the scrubbed wood.