‘I don’t think music really appropriate to the occasion. But we need something. Vico, will you find something to use as a drum?’ Agostino says.
Nodding, Vico crosses behind Federico and Giovanni Battista and picks up the small barrel which had contained their ale. He returns to sit beside Lidia and up-ends the barrel over his knees. ‘Pass the ladle over, will you?’ he mutters, and Cosima takes the wooden ladle from the vegetable bowl and hands it to him. He begins a slow and insistent beat with the handle of the ladle and with his fingertips, a soft pulse that rings out into the quiet of the big chamber. Sofia feels her own heartbeat quicken at the sound.
‘Angelo,’ Agostino says now. ‘Come and stand here by the fire.’
Without a word, Angelo moves to stand before Agostino and Cosima.
‘Angelo da Bagnacavallo, you have here been accused of a heinous and dreadful crime by two members of the troupe, and you have confirmed that accusation with your own words.’
‘I have.’
‘Do you stand by that confirmation, or do you wish to retract it?’
Angelo shakes his head. ‘I have no choice but to stand by it.’
Looking close to tears, Agostino says, ‘Are you ready… to take the consequences of having embarked upon a course of action incompatible with the life of a member of the Coraggiosi?’
‘I suppose I have to be. Yes. I am.’
The soft drumbeat quickens a pace.
‘I need to hear a declaration from you that you will set forth from here tonight with no malice, with no intent to bring disrepute upon the troupe, with no wish to cause harm to any member at any time in the future. Remember you are bound by the Tenure of the Road, as are we all.’
‘I so declare.’
Niccolò mutters something in Agostino’s ear, and he nods. ‘For should word reach us of any such defamation or harmful intent,’ he says, ‘the Tenure of the Road – shared by every member of every troupe upon the road – would be dissolved between us and we would feel obliged to alert the authorities immediately, laying before them all the facts as you have made clear this evening.’
Angelo swallows visibly. After a deep breath, he says, ‘I shall cause no harm to be brought upon the troupe.’
Vico’s drumbeat speeds up still further.
‘Then, Angelo da Bagnacavallo, despite the damage you have done to us and to others, I ask Genesius and Vitus to travel with you and to keep you safe, as a Brother of the Road.’ Agostino closes his eyes and clasps his hands. ‘Genesius and Vitus, keep our brother here safe from harm… but keep him too away from us. We do not wish to see him amongst us again.’
Niccolò whispers in Agostino’s ear again, and, opening his eyes once more, he nods, his face taut and miserable. ‘Angelo da Bagnacavallo,’ he says in a ringing voice, ‘take this handful of dust.’ And, reaching over to the outer edges of the hearth, he bends down and scrapes up a fistful of ash.
Angelo frowns slightly, as though unsure how to proceed, but he holds a hand, palm up, beneath the fist as Agostino allows the ash to trickle out, then he closes his fingers loosely over the little pile in his palm.
‘Mingle with that a pinch of the dust of the Coraggiosi.’ Agostino now has in his hand the small corked pot which Sofia last saw on the day of her scelta ceremony. He pulls the cork, puts finger and thumb into the neck of the pot and brings out a small pinch of dirt. Opening his fingers, Angelo allows Agostino to drop the dirt onto the pile in his palm.
‘Take with you now this fragment of the dust of the Tenure of the Road,’ Agostino says, and Sofia thinks his voice is now perilously near cracking. ‘It is time for you to go. You may be a road-dweller for the rest of your days or you may choose to renounce it and live within walls, but as from this moment, wherever you are, you are… you are no longer a member of the Coraggiosi.’
Angelo stares around at them all without speaking for several long seconds. Then he speaks, and his words fall like hard pebbles into the silence. ‘May I say something before I leave?’
Agostino darts a glance towards Niccolò, then nods.
Angelo, staring now at Beppe with deadened eyes, says in an expressionless voice, ‘I should have prevented your father’s death, Bianchi. I could have done it, but I chose not to. Papa discovered my friendship with you a few days after your father was arrested – one of his servants had told him – and he forbade me to see you again, or to have any contact with you. It was an acquaintance that reflected particularly poorly upon the family’s social standing, he said. He was angry – he shouted at me for hours. I was very much afraid of him. I had disappointed him in almost everything I’d done up until that point, and I knew that I was going to disappoint him most of all in the request I was saving up to make: the fact that I wanted to be an actor and I needed money from him to do so. Even at thirteen I knew it was all I wanted – an ambition first born out of our wild games together, I suppose. Papa, however, saw actors as little better than criminals. I knew that if I asked him to speak out for your father, it would reflect badly upon me and threaten my ambitions. So I stayed silent. I stayed silent and your father died a most terrible death, when he might have walked free.’
Beppe’s mouth is slightly open and he is breathing fast. Sofia’s gaze flicks from him to Angelo and back, her eyes wide, her lips dry and cold.
Angelo turns to Agostino. ‘I stayed silent at Franceschina, too, and Sofia nearly paid the price for that, as Beppe’s father had done before… because of me. So I spoke up for her in Bologna to try to… to try to smother the accusing voices in my head: the ever-present voices. Voices… that even the laudanum never fully manages to silence.’
And, crossing the room in a few long strides, he throws his handful of ash into the fire and wipes his hands, first one against the other, then both against the sides of his breeches. Snatching up one of the bags from the pile near the door, he stares at each member of the troupe in turn, then leaves the room without a word. The door bangs behind him and the echo of the noise hangs in the air like the rising curl of smoke after a cannon-shot. His footsteps ring out for a moment on the steps outside and then fade.
No one utters a sound or moves a muscle.
The silence is almost suffocating.
Then Lidia begins to sing: a soft lament, which raises the hairs on Sofia’s arms and neck. Vico picks up the ale barrel and taps out an accompaniment on its base with his fingers, humming a wordless harmony beneath Lidia’s haunting tune.
Sofia clasps her hands and presses them against her mouth. Tears sting in the corners of her eyes. Despite everything – despite the betrayal and the anger and the pain Angelo has caused – she knows he has walked away from them wrapped in a stinking fog of self-loathing and loneliness and her heart clenches tight at the thought of it. She wipes her eyes with the back of her index finger.
Beppe puts an arm around her shoulders and she leans in against him.
42
Fabio da Correggio laughs, and at the sight of his cousin’s gleeful, upturned mouth and the gleam of wetness along the line of the boy’s lower lip, Marco’s insides lurch painfully. Seated at his table under the window in the small Verona apartment, he forces himself to look back at the letter in front of him.
He will not beg.
‘And anyway, I won’t be long, Marco,’ Fabio says. ‘Like I said: he only has to deliver the finished painting. He says he just wants a companion for the journey. We won’t be more than a few weeks. I can’t turn down an adventure like this – God, I’ve wanted to go to Venezia for years! You’ll be happy here until I get back, won’t you?’
Marco hears the dismissal in Fabio’s voice and knows that the moment has come, the moment he has known all along would be inevitable. His hedonistic, self-centred, amoral tomcat of a cousin has tired of him. Their weeks in Verona have been wild and exhausting and – to Marco at least – exquisite, but, as he has known all along would happen, Fabio has finally lost interest. The young artist with whom he has been spending increasingly
more of his time over the past few days has proved too much of an attraction to resist. Feigning a continuing concern with his letter, Marco smooths out the paper and frowns at the words scrawled illegibly upon it as though they have some significance for him.
‘Of course,’ he lies, glancing up and flashing a brief and wintry smile. ‘I’ll be here – I have plenty to do until your return.’
Fabio puffs a short breath. ‘Good. I’ve said I’ll meet Enrico later this evening. I might stay at his rooms, in fact, as we’re setting off at first light tomorrow. So, I might not see you again until I return from Venezia.’
Fully aware that Fabio might not choose to return at all, and that this might perhaps be the last time he ever lays eyes on the boy, Marco struggles with himself as a howling cry of despair balloons in his throat. Swallowing it down with an effort that leaves him light-headed, he gets to his feet. ‘Travel safely, Fabio,’ he says, forcing a smile. ‘I shall lay in some wine for your return.’
‘Excellent – oh, and steer clear of those boys we met last week, won’t you?’ Fabio says cheerfully. ‘They seemed most entertaining, but I got the feeling they might only be after your scudi.’
Standing in the little chapel, gazing down at Maddalena’s body with its smoothly domed belly, the swell almost hidden now beneath her finest silk and lawn, Paolo di Maccio finds that he cannot summon up any emotion at all. No anger; no desire for revenge; no sadness; no relief; no regret. Just a blankness. An absence of feelings. An empty space.
Maddalena’s panicked wail – the noise that woke him two nights ago and which has resonated in his head ever since – and the racking seizures that followed within minutes of her gasped-out pleas for help have left him shaken, he cannot deny that. But surprised – no, he was not surprised. Maddalena was carrying da Correggio’s child, and it was abundantly clear from his mocking taunts that evening at Franceschina that da Correggio had thoroughly enjoyed imparting the news. The reasons for her liaison with him were clear: the little brown bottle beneath Maddalena’s pillow and the upturned glass on her table both told their own story; the rumours had indeed been true. All in all, he thinks to himself now, as he runs a finger gently along the back of one of Maddalena’s thin, chilled hands, it has all probably worked itself out for the best.
Gripping his dead wife’s fingers in his for the briefest moment, he turns and leaves the little chapel.
43
‘A letter came for you earlier, Sofia,’ Vico says, flapping it out towards her as she returns from the market two mornings after Angelo’s departure. She takes it from him and he strides away. Still unable to read more than a few words, she hands it straight to Beppe. ‘Read it for me, please,’ she says. ‘Who is it from?’
Beppe cracks open the little blobbed seal and unfolds the letter. ‘What do you know?’ he says, grinning at Sofia. ‘It’s from Signora Andreini. You have a message from the Gelosi themselves, no less.’
‘From Isabella? Oh, Beppe, read it for me – what does she say?’
Beppe clears his throat and reads.
‘Sofia, cara,
‘As I said I would, I have spoken with His Grace the Duke of Ferrara on your behalf – on behalf of the whole of the Coraggiosi troupe, in fact. Oh, my dear, you will be so happy – the duke is simply outraged at the injustice of the treatment you have received at the hands of his representatives in Bologna! While we were dining with him in the great hall at the Castello Estense after the Gelosi performance yesterday (you must believe me, cara, the duke’s palace is a truly frightening building – more like being in a prison than a castle, if you want an honest opinion…), I took the opportunity to put to him just how dreadfully you had all been treated. I made sure to paint a truly distressing picture of everything that had happened – and in the event Signor d’Este was deeply shocked, as indeed was the duchess.
‘I shall not tell you everything here, but suffice it to say, my dear, that Signor d’Este has for some time been concerned at the heavy-handed justice (or lack of it) in some of the cities in the Duchy of Ferrara, and Signor da Budrio is one of those on whom he has been keeping a very careful eye. This was, I understand, one injustice too many. He is even now instructing the said signore to rescind the banishment order forthwith and – are you sitting down, my dear? – perhaps just to underline how very much he disapproves of what has taken place, he intends to commission a performance from the Coraggiosi in the days leading up to Christmas! A greater honour I simply cannot imagine! I’m so happy to have been instrumental in obtaining it for you.
‘We in the Gelosi will all be heading off to France to perform at the French court next week and will be in France a year or more, otherwise I would insist on our spending some time together when you come to Ferrara. I am so very sad that you will not be joining us after all – but of course I understand. Perhaps particularly as actresses, we know all too well that the course of true love must triumph over all else, do you not think, cara? (And having met your charming Arlecchino, even briefly, I can quite see why you are staying put in Italy…)’
Here Beppe coughs and waves a hand in front of his face, feigning embarrassment, and Sofia laughs. Leaning forwards, she kisses his mouth. ‘Get on with it, will you?’
Straightening his face, he continues.
‘You will no doubt be receiving your invitation directly from the duke – but in case it is delayed for any reason, know that he is expecting you all at the castello for a performance a couple of days before Christmas. Put something wonderful together for him! I have told him how impressed I was, particularly with you, my dear.
‘Francesco and I send you all our fondest wishes, and Flaminio says I am to tell you that he is writing Colombina’s lines for his new scenario with you in mind – whether you are to play the role or not. You made a great impression on him, cara.
‘Your friend,
‘Isabella’
There is a moment’s silence, then Beppe whistles. ‘We must tell Ago and Cosima straight away – this is better news than we could possibly have hoped for.’
‘Is it true – does she mean it?’
‘I can’t imagine she would make up such a thing.’
‘I’m not sure I understand, though,’ Sofia says, puzzled. ‘Why on earth should someone as powerful as the Duke of Ferrara care at all about what has happened to someone like me? Someone he has never heard of?’
Beppe looks back at the letter. ‘Do you know what I think?’ he says, folding it back up and tapping his mouth with the folded edge. ‘I think it might just be that Signor d’Este was more struck by the teller of the tale than by the tale itself.’
‘What do you mean?’
He points the letter at her. ‘Well… she’s beautiful, isn’t she, Isabella Andreini?’
Sofia nods.
‘And very… excitable… and passionate. I think the duke might just have been swept away by her story and… well… decided to do whatever he thought might please her the most.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Mmm. Not that it matters, though. All that matters is the commission. Come on, let’s go and tell Agostino.’
44
The Castello Estense, Ferrara, December
It has been an unusually cold December. Everyone in Ferrara is talking about how long it is since there has been such a freeze in the city and, since this morning’s particularly hard frost, the Ferrarese have only been venturing out when they absolutely have to, bundled in as many layers of clothing as they can gather together. Snow began to fall a couple of days ago, and now most of the city’s roofs are smoothly white. Many of the narrower streets have already been trodden into dirty grey ruts, but the piazza outside the front of the Castello Estense has been deliberately roped off and still lies pristine white, its surface broken only by the tiny three-toed prints of birds and one single child-sized boot-print, daringly placed inside the cordon, right at the far western edge.
Within the castle walls, in the great central cortile, the snow
– undisturbed here by wind and scuffed by no more than the occasional passage of feet – lies thicker than elsewhere: each bare twig of the dozen or so potted cherry trees is plumply white, every sill of every window seems pillowed with snow and tiny scuffs of the stuff are clinging to each minute irregularity in the bricks of the massive castle walls, giving them an unusually soft, speckled appearance.
It is five days before Christmas. The afternoon light has not yet begun to fade, but the many lanterns and torches burning within the castle are already shining out into the shadowed cortile, and their yellow light is casting vivid blue-purple shadows across the snow into the darker corners.
The Girl with the Painted Face Page 43
