The Girl with the Painted Face

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Inside, at the far end of the long North Hall, below where a pretty wooden gallery stretches across the width of the wall, a stage is being set. Above the gallery is a fresco – a huge, vividly painted, beautiful depiction of a mythological scene – and all along the gallery’s balustrade, candles in little glass pots have been placed ready to be lit when the light finally fades.

  The trestles are in place, the backcloths have been thrown up and over their tightly stretched ropes and three people are crouched on the ground in front of the trestles, busily hooking up the drapery which conceals the below-stage area from the audience’s view. Sofia, Beppe and Niccolò are making their way along the row of hooks, Sofia at one end of the stage, Niccolò at the other, working in towards where Beppe is busy in the centre.

  ‘What’s left to do?’ Niccolò asks, sitting back on his heels.

  ‘Not much.’ Beppe pushes a hand through his hair. ‘Vico’s dealing with the props and Agostino will put the scenario board with the canovaccii up in a moment. We’re almost ready.’

  ‘Can you believe this?’ Sofia says, staring around the enormous room, where a dozen or so servants are busily setting out chairs and benches, refilling rushlight holders with oil and setting branched candlesticks out on the many windowsills. ‘Look at it all – look at us! Can you believe it? The Coraggiosi, performing at the Castello Estense?’

  Beppe grins at her. ‘I told you right at the start that you’d bring us luck, didn’t I?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Frowning, Beppe considers. ‘I think I did. Well, if I didn’t say it, I thought it.’

  Sofia is smiling at this when a tall, thin, elderly castle servant, dressed in black, with a shock of thinning white hair and a worried expression on his rather furrowed face, approaches the stage, looking, Sofia thinks, like a rather nervous and aged heron. Clearing his throat, he pecks a bow towards the actors.

  Beppe stands and nods a bow in return. ‘Signore?’

  ‘Ahem,’ the man says. ‘I need to ascertain that everything is set and ready to begin at the time we specified.’

  ‘Indeed it is, signore. Only the last few bits and pieces to place in position, and then all we have to do is to put on our costumes and masks.’

  ‘Beppe! Beppe!’

  Everyone starts as Agostino hurries out onto the stage and, crouching at the front edge, bends down towards Beppe. ‘Beppe, caro, we have a problem!’

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Signore,’ says the white-haired servant. ‘If there is a problem, may I be of any assistance?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Signor… Signor…?’

  ‘Guarniero, signore – Franco Guarniero.’

  ‘Signor Guarniero,’ Agostino repeats politely. ‘Thank you, you are most kind, signore. We have… er… a slight issue with a costume, and are in urgent need of some strips of buckram with which to repair it. Do you know of anywhere in the vicinity we might be able to find some?’

  Guarniero frowns for a second, then says, ‘Yes indeed. I will send one of the servants straight away. There is a row of little covered shops along the far side wall of the cathedral. One of them I know sells silks and linens and threads – and I hope very much that they will have the buckram you require.’

  ‘That’s marvellous! I think though that we should perhaps make the trip ourselves, signore, to be sure the stuff is exactly what we need. Is the place hard to find?’ Agostino says.

  ‘Not in the least. If you are quite certain you wish to go yourselves…’

  Agostino assures him that this is the case.

  ‘… then I shall take you to the door in person, and point you in the right direction. It is very close, and you simply cannot miss it.’

  Agostino beams at him, then turns to Beppe. ‘Beppe, caro, will you go, and take Sofia with you?’

  ‘Of course. What’s the problem – what do we need the buckram for?’

  ‘So silly – Giovanni Battista’s belly padding is about to fall to pieces. It was just holding together, but pulling it out of the box just now, I fear its hours are numbered. It would be too dreadful if it collapsed during the performance. We’re just going to need a few yards of those stiffened buckram strips to give it a bit of solidity. Sofia, if we find some, will you be able to mend the thing for us in time?’

  Together, Beppe and Sofia reassure Agostino that both the trip and the mend can easily be accomplished and he hands them a little drawstring purse filled with clinking coins. They follow the still-anxious-looking Guarniero down through the castello to one of the four main entrances, from where he explains the route, leaning out into the snow, pointing towards the cathedral and jabbing a finger around to the left as he details the directions.

  It is a matter of a moment’s walk from the Castello Estense to the great cathedral, whose façade today is shrouded in white. Walking quickly, hand in hand, with snow crunching underfoot at each step, Beppe and Sofia round the front of the cathedral and turn left, where, along the long side wall there is, as Signor Guarniero described, a row of tiny shops, nestling under the sheltering bulk of the massive church.

  The first shop proves to be a purveyor of leather goods: belts and shoes, jerkins and boots, scabbards, purses and bags. The second sells glass. The third is empty; the door is ajar and the interior of the little room, when Beppe and Sofia tentatively push it open and peer inside, is dank and musty-smelling. A dirty flurry of snow has swept in from outside and scattered across the first few feet of floor. The fourth shop, however, is lantern-lit and glows in jewelled colours.

  Sofia’s mouth opens in astonishment as they push open the door and step inside.

  The room is tiny – perhaps no more than twelve feet square – but despite its size, dozens of bolts of silks and velvets, lawns and damasks and cypress-gauzes of all colours have been stacked one on top of the other on deep shelves along the narrow back wall. Tawny oranges, vivid blues, wine reds and coral pinks; pristine white lawn and black fustian; a watered damask the colour of a storm cloud. Several yards of a ruby-coloured silk have been pulled from the bolt and lie untidily bundled on a table top, where an elderly man – bent of back and bald of head – is running it appraisingly through his fingers. He looks up as Beppe and Sofia enter the shop.

  ‘Signore? Signora?’

  Beppe clears his throat. ‘Signore, we’re looking for some stiffened buckram strips – might you possibly…?’

  The old man smiles widely. ‘Buckram? Indeed, I have just the thing.’ Turning to a tiny door in the far corner of the room, he leans through it and calls. ‘Dario?’ He pauses, then calls again. ‘Dario! We need some buckram. There’s a reel in the painted chest. Bring it, will you?’

  A moment passes, and Sofia hears quick, light footsteps on what sounds like a set of wooden steps out behind the shop’s front room; then the tiny door opens and a scrawny young man with untidy fairish hair ducks under the lintel, a narrow roll of cream-coloured stiff fabric in his arms. Much to her surprise, Sofia finds there is something familiar about the new arrival, and she stares at him, wondering where on earth she has seen him before.

  He does not notice her straight away, but, muttering something to the elderly proprietor, pushes the pile of red silk to one end of the table to make room for the roll of buckram. Then, glancing across at the newcomers as he turns to leave the shop once more, he stops and his mouth opens a little. His gaze is fixed upon Sofia.

  Beppe looks from her to the boy and back, puzzled.

  The boy is frowning, clearly trying to place Sofia in his mind, but even as he stares at her, with a jolt of recognition Sofia realizes who he is. She bites her lip. ‘Beppe, have you the purse?’ she says quietly, her gaze on the boy’s face. Without questioning, Beppe pushes a hand into his breeches pocket and pulls out the little drawstring pouch.

  Taking it from him, Sofia opens it, rummages and picks out a couple of coins. She holds them out. ‘I think I owe you some money, signore,’ she says. ‘Ten baiocchi, wasn’
t it?’

  The boy’s face cracks into a wide grin, snapping his fingers in realization. Pointing at her, he says, ‘Yes, signorina, that was it. Exactly! Ten baiocchi.’

  ‘Dario?’ The old proprietor looks puzzled. ‘What is this? Do you know the lady?’

  Sofia says, ‘Your boy was very kind to me some time ago, signore. Back in Bologna. He gave me a pair of crimson ribbons. I had no money but he saw that I loved them and longed to have them and he gave them to me. I promised then that I’d pay him back when I saw him again.’ She shrugs. ‘I’m just keeping my promise.’

  ‘In Bologna? Dario, when was this?’

  Dario pulls his gaze from Sofia’s face and turns to the old man. ‘Few months ago, Tommaso, just before I came to Ferrara.’

  ‘You were so kind, signore.’

  Dario shrugs, his grin wide and happy.

  ‘I still have the ribbons. I wear them each time I perform. In my hair. I’m an actress now.’

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sofia reaches for Beppe’s hand. ‘With a troupe: the Coraggiosi.’

  Dario frowns. ‘The Coraggiosi? Isn’t that… Tommaso, isn’t that the name of the troupe Bigo Ghisilieri was talking about?’ Not waiting for an answer, he turns to Sofia. ‘Isn’t it your people the duke has invited to play at the castello?’

  Sofia nods. ‘Today. In about two hours, in fact.’

  Dario’s eyebrows lift, and his mouth puckers into a silent whistle of admiration. ‘Your troupe is quite something, so my friend Bigo says.’

  Beppe puts an arm around Sofia’s shoulders. ‘We do our best,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Do you work here all the time now?’ Sofia asks.

  Dario nods. He grins at the old man. ‘Better than lugging that great pack around all over Emilia-Romagna, eh, Tommaso?’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ the old man says a little ponderously. ‘A capable boy.’ There is a pause, then he pats the roll of buckram and adds, ‘Now… how much of this do you need?’ and Sofia, Beppe and Dario all start slightly, jolted out of an odd stillness that seemed to have quite overtaken them.

  Beppe says, ‘Oh yes. Five yards. Five yards, if you have them, please.’

  The buckram is unrolled and measured, cut and wrapped and paid for, thanks are offered, smiles are exchanged, promises to look in next time they are in the city are made and hands are shaken. Beppe and Sofia hurry back to the castello, pausing only for Beppe to duck down, form a handful of snowballs between cupped and reddening palms and begin juggling with them.

  In the ante-room behind the stage, with a little over an hour to go before the performance is due to begin, everything is ready. Every item is in exactly the right place: costumes are hanging on hooks; every sponge, every box of charcoal sticks, every pot of chalk has been laid out on tables ready for use. (The precious crushed pearl has been tucked away in Beppe’s breeches pocket.) Ranks of candles and lamps stand ready to be lit when the light finally fails, and the actors have run through the whole show once already. Agostino is happy and he has told the troupe to rest for a while before the performance. Lidia, who is indeed with child – Sofia’s instincts have been proved right, much to her delight – has said she wishes to lie down, and has been given a small palliasse by the castle servants. Tucked under a blanket, she has her eyes closed. Vico, whittling at a small piece of wood with a knife, is sitting cross-legged beside her. Agostino and Cosima have ensconced themselves on a window seat near the fireplace; Cosima has always hated the cold, and today she has a thick woollen wrap around her shoulders and a scowl is crumpling her beautiful features. Federico and Giovanni Battista are engaged in a game of cards with one of Signor d’Este’s young assistants and Benedetto Morello, the Coraggiosi’s new inamorato. Slight, with fair hair, grey eyes and a neat, straight nose, Signor Morello does not have anything like the perfect looks of his complex predecessor, though he is, Sofia has thought privately, handsome enough. But his witty and affectionate personality has quickly endeared him to every member of the troupe, and, to everyone’s delight, he has struck up a particular friendship with the elderly Giovanni Battista, who seems happier now than anyone can remember his being for years.

  Niccolò, with Beppe’s dog curled at his feet, has seated himself on the opposite side of the fireplace to Agostino and Cosima. The wood has been heaped high and the flames are fierce and loud. Heat is pushing out into the room as he stares; his eyes begin to sting, but he does not draw back. Gazing into the flames, he half listens to Agostino and Cosima’s muttered conversation, and to the staccato bursts of speech from the card-players, but joins in none of it.

  He thinks of Anna and her husband, back in the little house in Faenza; this will be the first Christmas he has spent without his daughter. He is happy to be here with the troupe – more than happy – but he will certainly miss seeing Anna. Sofia reminds him so much of Anna. Perhaps he can take her up to Faenza later in the New Year – and Beppe too. If Agostino can spare them.

  ‘I’m sure Anna would like to see them,’ he murmurs aloud.

  ‘What was that, Niccolò? What did you say?’ It is Sofia’s voice; she is leaning over his shoulder, her hands on each of his upper arms, and he sees that there is snow in her hair; her face is glowing outdoors-pink and her eyes are shining. ‘Did you say something? Ooh, you’re so warm!’

  She kisses his cheek, and her mouth is chilled. Smiling at her, he lifts a hand to his face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Nicco?’ Sofia says. ‘You look very pale.’ She has crouched down next to where he is sitting, and has taken his hand in both of her own. ‘Are you sure you’re well?’

  Niccolò nods, but Sofia is staring up at him intently now, her eyes flicking from one of his to the other, back and forth. ‘Nicco, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing, child, nothing.’ He pauses, shaking his head, then says, ‘Just thinking about my Anna, and how I shall miss her this Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, Nicco…’

  Niccolò puts his suggestion to her.

  ‘To the house in Faenza? Oh yes, I should love that,’ Sofia says. ‘And Beppe would too, I’m sure. Let’s ask Ago after the show.’

  The grand North Hall at the Castello Estense is humming with conversation. There must be at least two hundred candles alight. In every one of the long window recesses at least a dozen are burning brightly, and every flame is reflected in the glass behind; several dozen torches are burning in brackets at intervals along each of the two longest walls. No flowers are growing at this time of year, of course, but around the edges of the room many garlands of little branches of beech and ash and holly, plucked from goodness knows where (this is, after all, a truly city-bound castle), festoon the sills and the tops of the doors, and every branch has been lavishly adorned with ribbons and laces, scraps of golden paper and dozens and dozens of bunches of red berries. The golden paper is gleaming in the candlelight. Two huge gold-paste angels stand, trumpets in hand, on either side of the great double doors.

  The trestle stage at the other end of the room is complete now. The backdrop depicts a deserted street, and a little raised platform, draped in swagged cloth, stands to one side: a mountebank’s stall. Leaning against the stall is a lute.

  Standing on the little space behind the backcloths, Sofia peeps through the narrow chink between the two canvases and peers out at the audience that awaits them. Seated in the two largest and finest seats at the front are the duke – middle-aged, bearded, stern-looking, dressed entirely in black – and his latest duchess, the third in line, the little Spaniard who cannot, Sofia is sure, be much more than seventeen or eighteen. Wide-eyed and fresh-skinned, she looks more like Signor d’Este’s daughter than his wife, though it is well known that the Duke of Ferrara has no children.

  Beside and behind the duke and duchess are some three or four dozen dignitaries, all finely dressed in rich, vivid silks and damasks. Many gems and precious metals are glinting on necks and ears and fingers in the candlelight. It is, Sofia thinks, by far the
most prestigious and glittering audience she has seen, and a moment’s unease settles on her at the sight of them, making her pulse race and her stomach churn.

  Beppe comes to stand just behind her.

  Turning, Sofia tilts her face up to his and he makes as though to kiss her, though stopping short a fraction of an inch from her carefully painted mouth. ‘Ready?’ he says quietly.

  Sofia sucks in a long breath and lets it out slowly through pursed lips, nodding as she does so. ‘I think so. It’s a bit more frightening when the audience is so… so…’

  ‘Well dressed?’ Beppe suggests. ‘That’s the only difference between them and any other audience, I reckon. They’ll laugh and cry in all the same places as any other audience, if we do our job well, won’t they?’

  The others are beginning to gather at the foot of the little ladder: Cosima and Benedetto Morello, both beautiful and elegant and serene; Federico in his long-nosed and highly shining mask and Giovanni Battista with the newly mended fat belly which Sofia has carefully cobbled together with Dario’s buckram strips. The two older men are standing close to white-faced Agostino, who is muttering his lines to himself with silent animation. Lidia, padded up to look more stoutly matronly, nonetheless still looks sweet-faced and pretty; Vico, scratching up under his mask with a finger, bends towards her and whispers something in her ear. Shaking her head, she looks down at her belly, rubbing a hand gently over the as yet hardly visible swelling there.