‘We’ll be down in a moment,’ Beppe says, and Vico laughs. Sofia closes her eyes, inwardly shrivelling with embarrassment.
‘Glad to see my instincts are as fine as ever, amico,’ Vico calls cheerfully. ‘Hope you had a…’ He clears his throat again. ‘… had a… er… a good night.’
And, whistling loudly, he leaves the barn.
‘Tell me the rest of your story later, lovely girl,’ Beppe says. ‘We’re going to have to get up and it’s too important a tale to rush.’
Thoroughly disconcerted now, Sofia nods.
‘A few more minutes more won’t hurt, though…’ Beppe adds quietly, pulling her on top of him, running his hands over her buttocks and kissing her once more.
20
Bologna
Marco da Correggio – slight, dark, hollow-cheeked and brown-eyed – is indeed in the tavern, sitting on a low seat near the fire, a large tin cup of ale in his hands, but as soon as he sees Sebastiano, he scrambles to his feet and does his best to leave by the little door at the back of the downstairs room, knocking the cup onto the floor with a clatter. The ale splatters dark across the dusty flags. Elbowing his way between drinkers, he mutters thoughtless apologies as he bangs into shoulders and backs, slops drinks and knocks chairs; grabbing for the latch, he struggles to open the door, but, unfortunately for him, it catches on the uneven floor below and refuses to open wide enough to allow him to squeeze out.
Sebastiano, shoving past the same disgruntled tavern-goers – ignoring their protests – reaches Marco before he can wrestle the door any further, snatching at his cousin’s arm and tugging him back into the tavern’s room.
‘Come with me,’ he mutters. ‘Just come outside with me now, and —’
‘Vaffanculo!’ Marco says. ‘I haven’t got it, Sebastiano, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Sebastiano drags him by the wrist, bending his arm acutely to pull him in close, and hiss-whispers into his ear: ‘You know you don’t have a choice, Marco. I’m having that money.’
‘Piss off! Let go of me – I haven’t bloody got it, and I don’t have a chance of getting it either.’
Sebastiano has brought Marco right across to the entrance door now, and, yanking it open, he hauls his cousin out into the street; every eye in the tavern is upon the pair as they leave the room. Marco now snatches his arm out of Sebastiano’s grip, but Sebastiano grabs him by the front of his doublet and slams him up against the outside wall of the tavern. ‘I have no intention of falling foul of my creditors, Marco. You know what will happen if you don’t pay.’
‘You’ll have to give me time.’
‘I don’t have time. Let me spell it out to you – just in case you’ve forgotten any of the details in the fog of the ale you’ve clearly been downing back there – I lent you one hundred scudi last year, did I not? After you proved how indubitably poor your gaming instincts really are and lost most of your inheritance within a few hours.’
Marco says nothing.
‘Make no mistake, that was a hundred scudi I could ill afford. I only gave it to you because you are my father’s brother’s son and you promised to pay it back within two months. What a fool I was. That was eleven months ago – and you’ve given me… what is it now?’ Sebastiano scratches his head and screws up his face as though trying hard to remember an evasive fact. After a pause for effect, he says, in a voice thick with contempt, ‘Nothing. Not one single stinking baioccho. I’ve waited and waited, been more patient than I would have thought possible, but things have changed. I need eighty-five scudi – for reasons I have no intention of going into with you. And I need them now. This week. I intend to have what you owe me, one way or another.’ Taking a handful of Marco’s doublet, he continues, ‘Now you listen to me… My cousin you might be, but you are also a vicious little ponce who’s been discovered one too many times with his cock inside the breeches of an underage bardassa with the morals of a tomcat. And – dear God, how grubby this becomes! – this particular underage and amoral bardassa just happens to be someone to whom we are both closely related. Our other delightful cousin Fabio – that unprincipled disgrace to the family name – is worryingly well known to the authorities, I think you’ll agree…’
Marco swallows uncomfortably, wincing as though Sebastiano has spat at him.
Sebastiano continues, ‘… and I think you’ll remember I’m now armed with written testimony from several of Fabio’s other… friends… even if’ – he shrugs and pulls a face – ‘even if that evidence might perhaps have been extracted under some… duress. I have acquaintances in high places, as I’m sure you’re aware, and one or two of them are acquaintances who would pay handsomely for the sort of evidence of debauchery in this city that I could give them – in sumptuous detail.’ He pauses. His voice drops to a cold and expressionless whisper. ‘It would probably be the strappado, don’t you think? For the pair of you. For the decidedly indelicate, if titillating, combination of sodomy and incest.’
Marco looks stricken, clearly imagining the agonies of broken arms and dislocated shoulders. Sebastiano and Marco have both witnessed the horrors of public strappado punishments. ‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ he mutters, white-faced.
Grinning unpleasantly now at his cousin’s discomfiture, and ignoring the threat, Sebastiano says, ‘I’ll have that eighty-five – either from you, or from my high-ranking acquaintances. It’s up to you.’
Pushing his fingers up into his hair and gripping a fistful, Marco stares at his cousin. ‘I’ll find it for you by the end of the week,’ he says in a voice flattened by defeat.
Sebastiano smiles, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost its menace and now sounds bright and conversational. Reaching out, he pats Marco twice on the cheek with the flat of his palm. ‘Marvellous! I knew you’d see it my way. Bring it with you to Franceschina, why don’t you? The travelling players are coming to the castle in a couple of days – come and see the show.’ He grips Marco’s shoulder. ‘Stay for a few days – it’s going to be spectacular.’
Marco says nothing.
‘Have you seen them yet? They play regularly in and around Bologna. The Coraggiosi, the troupe is called.’
A mute shake of the head.
‘I saw them in Ravenna last year – they were magnificent. That’s why I’ve asked them to come to the castle. They’re quite something. To be perfectly honest, I’m hoping they’ll go some way to preserving my reputation amongst the great and the good. A reputation you’ve gone quite some way to bring down, what with one thing or another. I’ll see you at Franceschina.’ He turns to leave, but checks and adds, ‘Or perhaps I won’t, on second thoughts – you being neither great nor good. You might be a little preoccupied collecting me what you owe, anyway, might you not?’
Marco stares after Sebastiano, breathing heavily, shaking his head. ‘God, you are a bastard,’ he whispers, pressing himself back against the wall and feeling sick and light-headed. He has no more chance of scraping that amount of money together than he has of flying. What few coins he ever manages to put aside, Fabio spends without a second thought, and what Fabio doesn’t spend on himself, he, Marco, spends on Fabio. An image of his young cousin’s exquisite, feline smile comes into his mind and his guts turn over. He knows he is ruining himself for the sake of that boy: pointlessly, stupidly – but inevitably.
Would Sebastiano really do it? Really hand him and Fabio over to the authorities, knowing what the result would almost certainly be? At the prospect, Marco slides down the wall to sit in the dust at the edge of the road; a hissing has begun in his ears and he can feel sour spit gathering at the back of his mouth. I have acquaintances in high places, as I’m sure you’re aware – and one or two of them are acquaintances who would pay handsomely for the sort of evidence of debauchery in this city that I could give them – in sumptuous detail… Evidence. Evidence. His thoughts buzz pointlessly for several long moments, and then he draws in a sharp breath and opens his eyes wide. He will have to find evidenc
e of his own – lacking the means to pay Sebastiano what he wants, that, surely, must be the only way to stop him. If he, Marco, can find – or fabricate – evidence of some sort of equally heinous activity taking place under Sebastiano’s own roof, then he’ll use it like a counterweight to stop his cousin before his cousin stops him… permanently.
21
The Castello della Franceschina, a few miles outside Bologna
Standing alone, the red-brick castle looms squat and square, two storeys high with a stout, castellated tower at each corner, uncompromising and simply designed, like a child’s toy fortress. A clump of trees stands bulwark behind the mass of the building, but other than this, the land around is uninterrupted farmland, stretching away towards a barely undulating horizon.
The wagons scrunch to a halt, and everyone climbs out onto the wide dusty space in front of the castle, looking around them, taking in the beauty of their prestigious surroundings.
‘There you are, Beppe, my boy,’ Agostino says cheerfully, arms outstretched. ‘I told you that our venues are becoming ever more exalted, did I not? Look at this! And performing indoors for once. Luxury! Our most highly prized competitors would be congratulating themselves on having secured such a place.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Ago,’ Beppe says, coming up to stand beside him, ‘and it’s an impressive building, I agree. But it’s the audience that matters, though, isn’t it?’
Raising his eyebrows and pushing out his bottom lip as he considers this remark, Agostino nods. ‘Yes, of course you’re right…’ His smile returns as he adds, ‘… but Signor da Correggio has assured us that our audience will be both numerous and enthusiastic. He’s invited prestigious friends, local dignitaries, all the nearby nobility – we couldn’t ask for a more exalted collection!’
Heaving a bag from the back of the smallest wagon, Vico grunts as it hits the ground. He says, ‘Yes, fine. That’s all very well – just so long as they laugh in all the right places, eh?’
The wide main door of the castle opens with a resounding bang. Three men scurry out towards the Coraggiosi. Despite the fine quality of their dark doublets and breeches, it is clear from their demeanour that they are servants: there is an indefinable air of obsequiousness about them. They are smiling, however; the oldest and stoutest of the three, who has a cloud of grey hair like dirty thistledown, raises a hand and begins to speak in a breathlessly excited voice even before he has reached them.
A warm welcome is offered, genuine delight at the prospect of the performance to come is declared, the wagons are led off around the back of the castle to be placed neatly side by side, and the horses are unharnessed and led away to a nearby patch of pasture, where they express their pleasure in bucks and rolls and snorted whinnies. The troupe is hustled into the castle to see the grand reception room which is being prepared for the evening’s show.
‘This, signori and signore, is the Southern Banqueting Chamber. The largest room in the castello,’ says the oldest and stoutest servant, his arms held out wide, palms upwards, fingers spread.
Her mouth dropping open, Sofia gazes up at the ceiling: barrel-vaulted, richly corniced and elaborately frescoed, it is divided into painted sections, each of which seem to depict some form of traditional story, where satyrs, nymphs and mythological creatures play out their adventures amongst wreaths and ribbons and sprays of flowers. The colours are sumptuous and vivid and, Sofia thinks, absolutely beautiful. She has never set foot in a place such as this.
‘This is quite something, isn’t it?’ Beppe says quietly, his mouth near her ear. ‘Makes a bit of a change from the corner of a rubbish-strewn piazza.’
Still wide-eyed, still gazing around her, Sofia nods.
Agostino declares his approval with verbose extravagance and the servants exchange smug looks of proud proprietorship. Extra hands to help build the staging are offered but politely declined. The Coraggiosi have the construction of their stage well organized, and neither need nor wish for assistance with it.
Some two hours later, Sofia is underneath the trestles, checking that the last of the securing pegs are in place. This is a job for which she has happily volunteered, and Beppe has equally willingly offered to help her. The pair of them have been hidden away under the stage for far longer than the job really requires them to be, and, after some fifteen minutes, are both perhaps somewhat more dishevelled than might have been expected given the simplicity of the task.
Crouched awkwardly beneath the boarding, which is sitting lower than usual – the indoor trestles being shorter than the outdoor ones – Sofia is fiddling with a final peg which seems reluctant to slot into its allotted hole, and Beppe is reaching around her. She runs her fingers back and forth along his forearm as he fixes the peg with ease, then sucks in a soft breath as he pulls her in towards him. Turning within his arms, she holds his face between her hands while she kisses him. Here in the dust-smelling darkness of the understage, those glowing embers, not yet cooled since the previous night, ignite again and even the pressing reality of the imminent performance recedes in the face of their hunger for each other.
But their moment of intimacy does not last long.
‘Oy!’ Federico’s face appears at the back edge of the trestles a moment or two later. ‘Stop that, you two – there’s work to do!’
Beppe and Sofia pull apart. Smothering a giggle, Sofia turns onto hands and knees, preparing to crawl out, but Beppe holds her by the hips. ‘Just a moment,’ he says, pulling her back towards where he is kneeling so that her buttocks fit in snugly against the front of his breeches, ‘Listen, lovely girl,’ he says, curling his body over hers, ‘You started telling me about your mother yesterday…’
Closing her eyes, Sofia turns her head so that her cheek rubs softly against Beppe’s. ‘Not now – I don’t think I can —’
‘No, chick, I didn’t mean now. But we must find time. It’s important.’
Sofia says nothing.
‘This afternoon is going to be extraordinary,’ Beppe says. ‘This place is beautiful, the audience are going to love you and you’re going to be the perfect Colombina. And then afterwards – well, there’ll be time for… all sorts of things afterwards, won’t there?’
Pushing back against him, Sofia feels as though she is dissolving all over again. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, there will.’
‘Beppe!’ Federico’s voice is louder now and sounds irritable.
‘Come on, sartalina,’ Beppe says, running a hand over Sofia’s bottom. ‘My little seamstress. It’s time to go.’
As they scramble out from under the staging, Sofia sees that they have been joined by a stranger: a heavily built man of about thirty-five, dark-haired, dressed in an elaborately slashed doublet, with white frilled linen at neck and wrists. He is ruggedly handsome, clearly wealthy and, Sofia thinks, probably rather arrogant, judging by the slight edge of disdain apparent in his expression. The corners of his mouth lift in what looks like amusement, as she and Beppe get – a little awkwardly – to their feet.
‘Beppe, Sofia, this is Signor da Correggio,’ Agostino says, looking harassed. ‘Our host. Signore, this is Beppe Bianchi, our Arlecchino; and Sofia Genotti, who is playing the role of Colombina.’
As Beppe nods a greeting, and Sofia bobs a quick curtsy, Signor da Correggio rakes the pair of them with a glance. Beppe he dismisses in an instant, but his gaze lingers on Sofia; she sees him looking at her breasts, and moves a little closer to Beppe. Beppe takes her hand.
His eyes still on Sofia, Signor da Correggio says, ‘You are all most welcome: I’m very much looking forward to the show. People will be starting to arrive in a few hours, I should say, so I’ll leave you to your preparations. I’ll make sure to come and find you after the performance… to congratulate you.’
A soft cough comes from the other side of the room. Turning, Sofia sees Angelo stepping forward to intercept Signor da Correggio as he heads towards the door. The latter checks and Angelo, flicking a quick sideways glance ove
r towards where Agostino and Cosima are busily overseeing the last of the stage preparations, says something to his host which Sofia cannot hear. Signor da Correggio shakes his head. Angelo, his expression tense and his jaw twitching, mutters some other inaudible comment. Sofia frowns: the two men clearly know each other far more intimately than she has presumed. It is Angelo’s acquaintance with da Correggio that secured them the performance here at the castello, that much she knows from everything Agostino has told them all, but until this moment, she has imagined the connection between the two to be tenuous – something of a formality.
‘Oh, very well. Come with me now, then – five minutes, no more,’ she hears the signore say, a bite of irritation in his voice; then he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, Angelo a couple of paces behind him.
Vico whistles as Angelo reaches the door and Angelo rounds on him. ‘Can you not ever keep your fucking mouth shut?’ he snarls, and Vico pulls an open-mouthed face of exaggerated indignation as the door shuts behind him.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 21
