A pair of pretty white ponies with bright ribbons fluttering in their manes and tails, ridden by two young boys, struts ahead of a procession – a procession of characters so familiar to Sofia that seeing them here, she holds her breath. Two masked men – the phallic-nosed and ridiculous Il Capitano and the white-eyebrowed, huge-bellied Dottore – stride along in front, arguing vehemently, and deliberately ignoring the clapping of the fast-gathering crowd. Behind them, their steps so light and delicate they might almost be dancing, come the Lovers. The woman is younger than Cosima: fair-haired and sweet-faced, with tiny hands and feet, while her companion is older, taller, broader-shouldered than Angelo; he is good-looking, though not, Sofia thinks, as startlingly handsome as Angelo. As Cosima and Angelo have done so often, though, these two are smiling out at the crowd, throwing flowers and sweetmeats towards reaching hands, acknowledging the many cheers and whistles with flourishes of their elegant hands. Several other zanni-masked figures stumble along behind them, and then there he is: Arlecchino.
Sofia’s heart turns over.
But of course it is not Beppe. This man is shorter, stockier than Beppe. He wears his hat further forward, pushed over to one side. Despite the instantly recognizable diamond-patterned leggings and jacket, despite the familiar crack of the wooden bat, there can be no confusion: this man’s movements, though agile and funny, are nothing like Beppe’s wild, fluid, weightless tumblings.
Beppe or not, Sofia cannot take her eyes from him.
‘Oh my good Lord… this is the Gelosi,’ Niccolò whispers in her ear, his eyes shining. ‘We’ve spoken about them often, have we not, the Gelosi? Probably the most successful troupe in Italy at the moment. That’s Isabella Andreini, and that’ – he points to the broad-shouldered Lover – ‘that’s her husband, Francesco. The one at the front – Il Capitano – I think that must be Flaminio Scala. He writes all their material. My word, we’re lucky to see them.’
‘Do you know them, then?’ Sofia says, tearing her gaze from where Arlecchino is now hopping along on one foot, clutching the other, with his mouth wide open as though in agony.
Niccolò shakes his head. ‘Not in the way I know the Coraggiosi,’ he says. ‘Not as friends. I met Francesco Andreini once, a couple of years ago, that’s all. A good man, I thought.’
‘Oh, Niccolò, do you think they might…?’
‘What? Your idea?’
Sofia nods.
‘You’ll have to ask them, child. I simply couldn’t say. This is the Gelosi, not just any troupe. But if they agree, then you could have no one better to help you accomplish what you want to do.’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course, though I’m going to leave everything to you – it will come better from you. We can follow them now – it looks as though they are intending to perform here in the Porta Ravegnana, doesn’t it? Best venue in the city – as we know.’
‘Come on then, we’ll need to talk to them before they start to prepare for their performance.’ With her hand tightly grasping Niccolò’s, Sofia begins to push her way through the crowd, pulling him along behind her, towards where the last of the troupe’s four big bright wagons is now entering the piazza.
‘Yes, this afternoon. We will start as the clock in the piazza chimes three, signore. Not a moment before and not a moment later! But if you will excuse me, we have a stage to set up, and preparations to make. I’ll look forward to seeing you at three!’ And Signora Isabella Andreini kisses the tips of her fingers and blows the kiss neatly towards an eager-faced man, who pretends to catch it; he holds it in a fist against his lips, grinning broadly.
Her wide smile fading to a practical determination as she turns away, Isabella Andreini pushes her fingers up into her hair. ‘Francesco, where exactly do you want to set the stage?’ she says.
‘Over there.’ Francesco Andreini points to a spot almost exactly where the Coraggiosi pitched their stage a few weeks before. ‘Just in front of the taller of the towers. Where we set last time – I think it worked well, don’t you?’
Signora Andreini nods.
Sofia watches as she walks back to the wagons.
Niccolò nudges her. ‘Go on, ask!’ he says, almost under his breath.
Sofia glances at him. ‘Are you sure I should…?’
‘Yes – go on!’
Sucking in a breath, Sofia follows the woman and stops near her as they reach the wagon. The woman turns, inclining her head curiously as she sees Sofia.
‘Signorina? Are you hoping to come and see the show?’
‘No – oh, I’m sorry, I mean yes, of course… but that’s not why…’ Sofia finds herself stuttering, and stumbling over her words, but the sweet-faced woman smiles.
‘What is it, signorina? Can I help you with something?’
‘Oh dear God, I hope so.’ Sofia holds Isabella Andreini’s gaze steadily.
Signora Andreini frowns briefly, then reaches out a hand. ‘Come with me,’ she says, stepping up onto the first step of the wagon. ‘Come in and tell me whatever it is that you very clearly need to say. I’ll need to be quick – we have a stage to set – but I can see that whatever it is, is important.’
Inside the wagon, another young woman, visibly with child, is seated on an untidy pile of blankets on one of three narrow truckle beds. She too frowns curiously at the sight of the stranger.
‘Prudenza, do you mind if we talk in here?’
‘No, of course not. Do you want me to leave?’
Signora Andreini shakes her head. ‘No, no, stay.’ She points to a painted stool, inviting Sofia to sit. ‘Now, signorina, tell me what you want.’
Drawing in a long breath, Sofia says, ‘Until a few days ago, I was playing Colombina with the Coraggiosi.’
She sees Signora Andreini flick a glance over to where the girl called Prudenza is now intently staring at the two of them.
‘Until a few days ago?’ Signora Andreini says. ‘Are you… what was the name?’ She clicks her fingers, trying to summon the information. ‘Genotti? That’s it. Are you Sofia Genotti?’
Startled, Sofia nods.
‘I’ve heard of you.’ As Sofia frowns in incomprehension, Signora Andreini adds, ‘Word travels fast in our profession. News of a new talent in particular spreads quickly.’
‘Oh.’ Sofia stares at her, not knowing what to say.
‘So, what was it you wanted to say, signorina?’
‘Oh. Oh, yes. Er – I don’t know if you heard about what happened at the Castello della Franceschina a few days ago…?’
‘Yes, I had heard – as I say, news spreads quickly. Though of course I don’t know if I have been told an accurate version of events. The Coraggiosi have been… sent away from Bologna, is that right?’
Sofia nods, her cheeks flaming. Hesitating, she says, ‘Because of me. I was accused of… of murder, signora. God, that sounds so terrible – I didn’t do it.’ She looks up at the roof of the wagon for a second. ‘Of course I didn’t do it. They accused me, but they had to let me go, because there was no evidence. Agostino and the troupe had collected an enormous crowd, back in the Piazza Maggiore, to demand my release – really enormous, hundreds of people – and I think it frightened the authorities into letting me go. But I know that they still think I did it, and that’s why they sent the troupe away.’
Signora Andreini and the girl called Prudenza are both staring at Sofia now. ‘We had heard something of this – battered over the head, wasn’t he, the man?’ Isabella says.
Sofia nods. ‘With an iron candlestick, they told me.’
‘How dreadful.’
‘Yes. He was not a good man – but yes, it’s terrible. Oh, signora, I want to know who really did do it!’ She pauses. ‘Because if they find out the truth, they might lift the banishment order and allow us back into Emilia-Romagna.’ She hears in her head what she has just uttered, and amends her sentence. ‘Allow them back.’
‘What do you want from me? Why are you telling me this? Why do you say
“them” like that? Have they thrown you out – the Coraggiosi?’
‘No!’ Sofia hesitates. ‘It’s not as simple as that, but —’
A voice shouts outside the wagon, interrupting her. ‘Isabella! Prudenza! We need you! Are you coming?’
A look of frustration flickers across Signora Andreini’s face. ‘Come back here after the show, signorina. We will talk then.’
Beppe stares up at the city walls, glad now that he made the decision to travel this way. The mare is tired – she is beginning to drag her feet – and, sliding off her back, he gathers the reins up in one hand. Putting the other up under her muzzle, he fiddles the soft skin of the horse’s whiskery lower lip with the tips of his fingers and, pulling her head in against his shoulder, he stands with her for a moment. The mare’s hot breath clouds up in front of him. ‘Good girl,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ve done well, really well – we’ll rest now.’ He pauses, staring up at the sky. ‘I hope to God I chose the right route.’
‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Niccolò says, turning to Sofia as the players take their bows, to cheers and whoops and a storm of wild applause from the enormous crowd. ‘You can understand how they’ve earned their reputation.’
Sofia nods. She is still riveted by the Gelosi’s Arlecchino. She knows, of course, that it is not Beppe, but how can she look at that costume, see someone in that mask, playing that role, and not think of him? To her, this man is nowhere near as accomplished a tumbler as Beppe, but his timing is perfect, she thinks now; he is clever, and funny, and his performance was wonderful. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Niccolò, I need to get back to Signora Andreini’s wagon, now the show is over. She seemed willing to listen to me, at least. It’s a start, isn’t it?’
Niccolò hugs her. ‘It is indeed, child, it is indeed. Get along with you. I’ll go back to the tavern and wait there with Violetta and Ippo.’
Sofia nods and, without another word, turns from him.
She eases through the crowd of people now leaving the piazza; the place is loud and joyous with that unmistakable buzz that comes only from a satisfied audience.
As she approaches the wagons, Signora Andreini beckons her over, and Sofia quickly finds herself once more up inside the largest of them, seated on the painted stool again. Signora Andreini is now accompanied not by the pregnant Prudenza, but by a man Sofia does not fully recognize, though she knows who he is by what he is wearing. Dressed still in the richly embroidered doublet and breeches he was wearing just now on the stage, he is perched on the end of one of the truckle beds, his shoulders slightly hunched in the cramped space.
‘Signorina,’ he says. ‘I am Francesco Andreini. My wife tells me you wish to talk to us. About something… of import.’ He inclines his head, and gestures around the wagon with a flourish. ‘Well. Our show is at an end. The floor is now yours – tell all!’
Sofia swallows uncomfortably. She clears her throat. Looking from Francesco Andreini to his wife and back, she again begins to explain.
Both Francesco and Isabella Andreini listen intently; Isabella’s mouth opens as Sofia describes Signor da Correggio’s assault upon her in the study, and Francesco shakes his head, frowning and tutting his tongue against his teeth.
‘We all ran from the place,’ Sofia says, ‘and travelled back here to Bologna, fearing that Beppe would be arrested. Da Correggio was alive when we left. Quite definitely alive. He was groaning and swearing, and struggling to get up.’
Both the Andreinis are gazing fixedly at her.
Sofia tells them of being arrested, of Beppe’s being so brutally knocked down by the black-jacketed thugs who had dragged her away from the troupe; she describes the filthy cell and her sickening fear, then her relief at being released – a relief quickly drowned by a smothering guilt as the troupe is banished from their beloved Emilia-Romagna, and left to face an uncertain, unfamiliar future elsewhere in Italy. ‘Everything seemed to change when we left the territories,’ she said. ‘All the life went out of the troupe – all the sparkle. But if,’ she says, ‘if I could discover who really did it, perhaps they might be persuaded to lift the banishment order, and…’
‘How do you propose to do that?’ Francesco does not sound incredulous – he wants to know. ‘Do you know?’
Sofia pulls in a breath. ‘I had an idea. I wanted to find a troupe – I wasn’t expecting for a moment that it would be you, the Gelosi, but I hoped a troupe might be here in the city.’ She hesitates. ‘Might it be possible, do you think, to put what happened into a performance – to act it out – and then for one of the characters to complain about the injustice of it all? Directly to the audience? Might an audience somehow be… oh, I don’t know… nudged into remembering… or admitting what they know but perhaps don’t want to accept?’
Isabella looks at Francesco and mutters something Sofia cannot hear. He nods and answers in an equally inaudible undertone. They converse quietly for several seconds. Then Isabella turns back to Sofia. ‘You played Colombina?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll have to ask Flaminio,’ Isabella says to Francesco, ‘but I’m sure Prudenza wouldn’t mind. In the state she’s in at the moment, she’ll be grateful.’
Sofia does not understand.
Seeing her confusion, Isabella says, ‘Look, I don’t know whether or not your idea has any chance of success, but I’m happy to try for you. We’re all road-dwellers, aren’t we? All of us. Like a massive, disparate family. I think you’ve been shabbily treated and, well, perhaps… perhaps Genesius and Vitus have had a hand in bringing you to us, and I’m sure they would be… displeased if we didn’t act upon their introduction.’ She takes Sofia’s hands in hers.
Feeling the prickling threat of tears, Sofia says, ‘You’re very kind.’
Isabella Andreini squeezes her fingers. ‘No, not kind at all, just angry on your behalf.’ She glances over at Francesco, who nods. ‘Here’s how we’ll do it. We’ll put you in as Colombina for a day. Prudenza is beginning to get too heavy to perform now – she’ll be glad of the rest, to be honest. We can work together to write it into tomorrow’s show, and after your Colombina has poured it all out to Arlecchino, I’ll make him address the audience. Simone – he plays Arlecchino – is so good at that, it’ll probably be best coming from him.’
‘Tomorrow’s show? But that’s so soon.’ Sofia shakes her head in consternation. ‘How can you —? Will you be able to —?’
Francesco Andreini throws back his head and laughs. ‘So soon? Ha! We have about twenty-two hours. This is luxury, child – hours more than we often allow ourselves for the preparation of new material.’
‘But —’
Isabella Andreini raises a hand. ‘I think you – and the rest of the troupe – have been treated shabbily by the authorities – and by the aristocracy. We want to help.’ She stands and begins to gesticulate theatrically as she adds in a suddenly more carrying voice, ‘Because, after all, what does our profession stand for, if not to demand a voice for the little man, if not to puncture the tough and ugly bubble of self-regard so often presented so unthinkingly by the wealthy and the powerful?’
Sofia stares at her.
‘We’ll do it. Why not? We’ll try to find your murderer for you.’ She stops and stares at her husband for a few seconds. Then, her eyes glittering, she turns back to Sofia. ‘And then, here’s a thought: stay with us for a while. After we move on from Bologna, come too. It’ll be an adventure – we’ll be going to France in the New Year. We’ve been asked to visit the French court. If what they are saying about you is true, you might be able to help us out. Prudenza won’t be able to work much longer – it will be weeks and weeks before she is fit to be back on stage. Come and play Colombina with us – at least while Prudenza approaches her confinement. If you don’t feel you can return to the Coraggiosi, then you are going to need work – and right now, we need a Colombina. Such a coincidence shouldn’t be ignored, should it?’
Sofia stares, unable to think of a
n answer, but Isabella Andreini smiles. ‘Francesco,’ she says, ‘go and find Simone, will you? We’ll need to work together.’
Arriving some moments after the show had begun, Beppe found the Piazza di Porta Ravegnana so tightly packed with eager and enthusiastic Bolognese, all struggling to see what was transpiring on the stage, that he quickly realized any hope of getting any nearer the front was out of the question. Scrambling up onto the pediment of a large and crumbling pillar, he watched – amused, despite his grinding anxiety – as the Gelosi’s Arlecchino flipped and tumbled as he had so often done himself. But Arlecchino then took his Colombina in his arms, and, Beppe, his smile vanishing, turned away and stared up at the roofscape of the piazza, swallowing down a drench of longing so fierce it made him feel physically sick.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 35
