The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  As they did her mother.

  A murderer.

  Did Beppe’s punch kill the signore? Dear God, it can’t have done. She is sure that the signore had been moving – she is sure she heard him swearing profusely – when they ran back up those steps, and, though Beppe did hit him very hard, Sofia cannot imagine it was the kind of blow that kills. She curls up more tightly on the narrow straw mattress, clasping her bent legs with a fierce intensity, trying not to cry out, pressing her face down onto her knees until her forehead aches and bright patterns swirl in front of her eyes.

  The big club swings – with a crack horribly like Arlecchino’s noisy wooden batocchio – and Beppe falls again and again, over and over in front of her eyes. The sound that the club makes against the side of his head echoes in her mind. A low, animal moaning fills her ears and only when she looks up and her mouth is open does she realize that it is she herself making the noise.

  Beppe winces as he pulls on Arlecchino’s mask; the leather is pressing painfully against the swollen lump on the side of his head. Grabbing at his black woollen hat, he climbs – more gingerly than usual – out of the wagon. Though he is trying his hardest to ignore it, he is feeling dizzy and sick.

  Outside, the rest of the troupe are already assembled. Costumed and with faces painted and masked, they are a bright splash of colour on this sunless October morning.

  Agostino beckons them all in to stand close to him as he issues instructions. ‘Cosima, cara, and Lidia, just wander through the crowds and point them in our direction. We want as big an audience as we can muster. Angelo, you, Federico and Giovanni Battista begin on the far side of the square with that argument from The Desperate Doctor, will you? And Beppe, Vico: I want the juggling lazzo you did at Montalbano, to start with. It went down so well there, and it’s eye-catching. Beppe, caro, that’s if you can manage it… after…?’

  Swallowing uncomfortably, trying to move as little as possible, Beppe gives one brief nod. ‘I’ll just get the bag of balls,’ he says, climbing back into the wagon and reappearing a moment later with a mesh bag filled with small reddish leather balls.

  ‘Ready?’ Agostino says.

  Everyone nods. Another swirl of nausea rocks Beppe as he moves his head. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly through an open mouth for a moment; then, patting the place where his wooden batocchio is tucked through his belt, he follows Vico, Lidia and the others out into the piazza, the mesh bag bumping against his leg at each step.

  It takes perhaps ten minutes for the beginnings of a crowd to collect. Cosima and Lidia charm passers-by, taking them by the hand and batting their eyelashes, assuring them that they are unlikely to see skill of this magnitude this side of Rome. Within moments, Beppe and Vico are at the centre of a jostling ring, and if Beppe is fighting at every moment not to vomit from the pain in his head, not one of the laughing onlookers has any inkling of his discomfort. Not for the first time, he blesses the anonymity of Arlecchino’s mask.

  Just as Vico over-arms a ball back into the whirling ring between Beppe’s hands, and as a loud spatter of applause fills the piazza, Agostino holds up his hands for quiet. Beppe catches the balls, one by one, then stands motionless. Vico turns too; Lidia and Cosima grasp hands. Angelo, Federico and Giovanni Battista stop the improvised conversation they have been having on the far side of the piazza and hurry across, bringing with them the two or three dozen men and women who have been laughing at their antics.

  ‘We have something to tell you…’ Agostino’s voice rings out across the piazza and the last murmurings die to silence. ‘And we tell you this now, because we need your help.’

  He hesitates for a moment, then, in the same carrying voice, says, ‘Last night, we performed our play for a nobleman. It matters not a jot who he was. It matters even less where he lives. What does matter a great deal is what he did when the show was finished.’

  Several people murmur amongst themselves, but Agostino silences them with a look.

  ‘He chose,’ he continues, louder still, one hand now raised like an avenging archangel, ‘after having enjoyed our offered entertainment, to try to seduce our youngest troupe member – and then, when she proved unwilling, he deemed it acceptable to use his superior strength and social standing to… to attempt to force her to act against her will.’

  Somebody mutters, ‘Bastard.’

  Agostino hears. ‘A bastard indeed, signore. A most apt description. And a most despicable way to behave.’ He gazes out across the crowd for a moment, then continues. ‘Our lovely little Colombina – who is nothing more than the victim in this crime – is languishing now in a locked room in the building behind the Palazzo Communale, unaccountably accused – of murder!’

  A shocked intake of breath. The word is repeated in hissed undertones around the piazza.

  ‘Yes, murder,’ Agostino says gravely. ‘The “bastard”, it seems, is dead. Though not by Sofia’s hand.’

  Mutters of ‘Who killed him then?’ and ‘Lecherous son of a pox-scarred puttana – they’re all the same’ can be heard in the crowd.

  ‘We don’t know who killed him,’ Agostino says now, his voice carrying clearly. ‘But we do know that Sofia did not. We want her out and back with us again. And we need your help.’

  The crowd’s rumbling intensifies.

  ‘How many of you have ever attended a Coraggiosi performance here in the past?’

  By the sound of the rumbling affirmation and the spatter of applause, a large proportion of the crowd are seasoned audience members. Agostino smiles and his eyes glitter. ‘Then,’ he says, his voice ringing clearly across the piazza, ‘if you have ever enjoyed our offered entertainments, come with us now – come to the palazzo and help us. Get our girl released. With just the eight of us, we stand little chance of being heard against the stony deafness of the authorities – despite the significant carrying qualities of our voices…’

  A buzz of muted laughter trickles through the crowd.

  Agostino continues. ‘But with the might of the people of Bologna behind us, they have to listen. So please, please, come with us now and protest with us.’

  ‘I want her back,’ Beppe says now, pulling off his mask, his voice cracking. ‘I need to get her back. Please help.’

  The crowd begins to clap. Several people whistle. Talking amongst themselves now, people begin to move forward and, with the eight costumed Coraggiosi performers at their head, they start to stream across the square towards the Piazza Maggiore.

  Passing an open window, her hand held tight in her father’s, Sofia overhears a rough voice saying, ‘Which poor sod are they after this time? They’re down the Via San Marco, Mario said. At least a dozen of them. Don’t fancy the chances of whoever it is, poor buggers.’

  ‘Oh, God…’ her mother breathes. ‘What do we —?’

  ‘We walk, that’s what.’ Papa’s grip tightens. ‘We keep walking.’ He takes a long breath. ‘The moment we run, we’re finished.’

  ‘But —’ Mamma is breathing heavily, and every now and again she staggers, putting out a hand to steady herself against the walls of the houses they are passing, as people do when they have had too much ale.

  Papa pulls her hand up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. ‘We must get out of the city – as fast as possible. Not far to go now. The Porta Romana is only just down the end of that street and along a short way and then as soon as we’re out, we’ll get over to the far side of the river, and then do our best to pick up a boat. The river will be the quickest… come on.’

  Mamma stares at him but seems not to see him.

  Grabbing her fingers and squeezing fiercely, Papa holds her hand until she gasps. ‘Stop it,’ he says. ‘Pull yourself together, cara. Think of Sofia. Walk – and walk fast!’

  Sofia starts, and the pictures fade, as the key clacks in the lock and the door to her room bangs open. Still sitting on the straw mattress in the furthest corner of the room, where she has been, immobile, for the past hour, she hunches her shoul
ders and stiffens, feeling her heartbeat thud up into her throat as a bald man in a threadbare brown doublet comes in. His lumpy head, Sofia thinks dully, looks like a shiny kneecap. He is carrying a metal tray, on which are an earthenware jug, a plate, a bowl and a tin cup; there is a hunk of dark bread on the plate and the bowl is steaming. He bangs the tray down on the table and the cup falls over on its side with a clatter. A trickle of something that looks to Sofia vaguely like vomit slops over the side of the bowl.

  ‘They said to bring you something to eat.’ The man in the threadbare doublet glances at her and jerks his chin towards the meal he has brought her.

  Sofia does not reply and does not move.

  ‘Soup,’ the man says.

  Sofia remains silent.

  The man clicks his tongue at her, shaking his head as he turns to leave. ‘I’d make the most of it, if I were you,’ he says, sounding irritated, as though she has already refused to eat.

  The door closes and the key clacks once more in the lock.

  Sofia hears the man’s footsteps for a second or two, moving away; then the suffocating silence of the room falls over her again. She looks at the bowl – the unappetizing trickle of brown liquid has pooled around the base – and realizes to her surprise that she is hungry. She will do better, she thinks now, to try the soup while it is at least hot – for, judging by the smell, she doubts it will taste good. Releasing her grip on her knees, she slowly unfolds her legs. Wincing at the stiffness, she stands and crosses to the table. There is a stool tucked underneath the table; she pulls it out and sits on it.

  Close to, the soup smells like – and probably, Sofia thinks, was made from – musty vegetable peelings, but she nonetheless tears pieces from the lump of bread, dips them into the bowl and eats, though without really registering what she is doing. The bread is sour and tough, but Sofia finds that she is grateful to have something to do with her hands, and she begins to tear the pieces into smaller shreds, wanting the process to last for longer.

  The earthenware jug contains water. Sofia pours and drinks. This, at least, is fresh and sweet, and she refills the cup twice.

  It is not long, though, before the inevitable consequence of all this becomes increasingly insistent and finally unavoidable: her bladder is full. Sofia falls to her knees and feels under the bed with her fingers; she pulls the table away from the wall – but she can find no receptacle of any description other than the jug, bowl and cup on the tray. She bangs on the door with her knuckles, timidly at first, then louder and more insistent.

  ‘Please! If you please, can somebody come?’

  Her pleas are met with silence.

  She calls again and again for several minutes. Then a male voice says roughly, ‘Quiet! You be quiet! You’ll be seen later.’

  ‘But I need…’ Sofia begins to remonstrate, then stops. If she insists, she reasons with herself now, she might be made to relieve herself in front of this unknown man. Tears – of shame, of fear, of despair – begin to leak from the corners of her eyes again, and, taking herself to the furthest corner of the room from the bed, she gathers her skirts and underskirts up into her arms and squats.

  As they reach the north-east entrance to the Piazza Maggiore, the crowd jostling in behind Beppe, Agostino and the rest of the troupe has more than tripled in size. Perhaps a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty people are streaming in through the gaps between the stuccoed buildings, and as Beppe glances behind him, he can see that the atmosphere amongst them all is febrile: some are laughing and excitable, as though they are preparing to see a show; others look mutinous, dangerous, unpredictable. Most are men, though perhaps a couple of dozen women and a handful of children can be seen.

  ‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Ago,’ he mutters.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing – this lot look as though they might start a riot.’

  Agostino puts an arm around his shoulders. ‘That’s exactly what I hope they will do, caro – or at least, what I hope the authorities fear they’ll do.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Trust me. I want her out as much as you do.’

  Doubting this, but grateful for the support, Beppe draws in a long, shaky breath, squares his shoulders and marches on, his head pounding, his stomach still heaving. The crowd behind him swirls and shifts out into the piazza like a flotsam-filled dam-breach, noisy and untidy and crackling with energy.

  Agostino points and shouts. ‘Over there – that’s where we are going. Can you see, everyone? The door to the left of the palazzo.’

  Murmurs of assent, cries of ‘Hurry up then’, ‘What are we waiting for?’ and ‘Bastards!’ can be heard throughout the throng. Beppe feels a surge of bodies pushing up against him. He grabs Agostino’s wrist. ‘Ago, I don’t like this. Don’t let them get out of hand. Tell them what to do. Stop them boiling over, before it’s too late.’

  Agostino nods.

  Jumping up onto a low wall, he holds up both hands and the crowd slows, stills and quietens. Feet shuffle; several people cough, clear their throats, a few murmur and then fall silent.

  ‘Thank you, all of you,’ Agostino says, in his clear, ringing voice. ‘Thank you for your support. We are all very, very grateful.’ He looks around at the rest of the troupe, who are nodding in agreement. ‘Now, we need to play this very carefully. Very carefully indeed. Please – let me speak with them in there. I know what I want to say, and I know how I want to say it. You don’t need to do anything – just be here. Be with us. Be the threat lying silently behind my words, build yourselves up behind me like a bank of thunderclouds, ready to break; like a —’

  A spatter of applause runs through the crowd and someone shouts, ‘Sod thunderclouds, we’ll fucking flatten them if they won’t let her out!’

  Beppe’s heart turns over. Scrambling up onto the wall next to Agostino, he shouts, ‘No! Please! Please stay calm. Just do what Agostino tells you. We’ll never manage if you start a fight. They’ll arrest you all and I’ll never get her back. Just do what he says – please.’

  His voice breaks on the final plea; the crowd hears it and quietens.

  More slowly now, with Agostino and Cosima, Beppe, Vico and Lidia, Federico, Giovanni Battista and Angelo at the head, the crowd moves along the northern edge of the great piazza and swarms out around the door to the smaller, darker building to the left of the Palazzo Communale.

  Agostino clicks his fingers at Beppe, his hand outstretched. Beppe passes him the wooden batocchio. Agostino holds it tightly in his fist and hammers on the door with its leather-bound handle. The sound rings out loudly across the piazza.

  For a count of more than twenty, nothing happens. Beppe wonders if he might actually be sick. Agostino bangs on the door a second time and, before he has completed the final thud, a voice from inside can be heard, saying angrily, ‘All right, all right, all right! I’m being as quick as I can.’

  The crowd seems to press more tightly together. Beppe looks around at them all; perhaps three hundred people are there now: far too many to count. Their very silence seems menacing.

  The door has opened a crack, and a thin man of some forty years is peering out of the gap between the door and the jamb. At the sight of the throng of people, his mouth drops open, and his fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

  Agostino says loudly, ‘You have a girl in here accused of murder.’

  The man frowns, mouth still gaping.

  ‘Her name is Sofia Genotti – and she is innocent.’

  A murmur spreads through the crowd; Agostino holds up a hand without looking around, and silence falls again behind him.

  ‘The only evidence you have for her guilt comes from one of the dead man’s servants. That servant is partisan. And he is lying.’

  The man in the doorway shakes his head and shuts the door.

  Agostino hammers on it again. The crowd joins in, shouting for the man’s return. Shouldering his way past Cosima and Vico, Beppe too ban
gs on the wooden panels with a clenched fist. ‘Open the door!’ he shouts, his mouth close to the wood, both hands now flat against the door. ‘Please! We have to talk to you. We have proof! She can’t have done it!’

  The door remains resolutely closed.

  ‘But, signori, there’s hundreds of them!’

  ‘What do you mean? Where?’

  Looking around the candlelit room at the seated group of dignitaries, the thin man gestures wildly with both arms in the vague direction of the Piazza Maggiore. ‘Out there! In the piazza – hundreds of them. The man says she’s innocent.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘That girl who’s just been brought in, I think that’s who he’s talking about.’

  ‘The traveller bitch who killed… what’s his name?… da Correggio?’

  The thin man shakes his head. ‘I tell you, they’re saying she didn’t do it.’