The Girl With the Painted Face (36 page)

Sofia and Beppe are still gazing fixedly at one another.

Beppe is struggling to breathe.

‘I have men departing for the Castello della Franceschina as we speak,’ da Budrio says pompously, and, putting a hand in the small of Sofia’s back, he pushes her gently out, away from the door. She moves like a sleepwalker towards where Beppe is standing, until she is no more than a pace in front of him. For a second he stands immobile; then, with a rush of exhilarated relief that leaves him light-headed, he throws his arms around her and holds her tight. She clings to him, crying now, grasping handfuls of the back of his doublet, pressing herself against him, tilting her face up towards his.

Beppe cups the back of her head with one hand and kisses her, and the crowd applauds enthusiastically, shifting in to stand closer to the two clasped figures, who are entirely unaware of being the centre of such rapt attention.

‘But…’ Da Budrio’s voice booms out above the surge of clapping and Beppe and Sofia pull back and turn to look at him, arms still wound around each other. ‘But I am nonetheless extremely angry. Yes,’ he says, holding hands up to quieten a rumble of sulky murmuring. ‘Yes, I accept that doubt may have been cast upon the reliability of the evidence offered for this crime, but public order has been threatened. Public calm has been disrupted. Public safety has been put at risk – at the instigation’ – he points at Agostino with a fat and accusatory forefinger – ‘of this troupe of reprobates.’

Beppe holds his breath, pulling Sofia in more closely to him.

‘And so I have no choice.’

The crowd is entirely silent now. Nobody speaks, nobody mutters; only a cough is heard, somewhere at the back of the piazza.

‘You actors will not work here in Bologna again.’

Every member of the troupe gasps audibly, and the crowd shifts and murmurs.

Da Budrio continues, ‘I do not wish to hear of any performances by this troupe – not one, however small, however impromptu – within the area of the city’s jurisdiction, for the next two years. Two years, do you hear? And know that that area of jurisdiction extends to Reggio in the west, to Ferrara in the north and out to Ravenna in the east. Signor da Bagnacavallo has the details of the agreement we have drawn up. Have no doubt about this’ – he glares at the Coraggiosi – ‘any breach of my injunction will result in summary arrest and detention and I will not look upon the matter with any sense of leniency again. My reputation, built over decades, has always been one of stringent rigour and I see no reason for it to change now.’

Glancing round at Agostino, Beppe sees his face is drawn and tight. He has Cosima by the hand.

‘And you, city-dwellers,’ da Budrio concludes loudly, turning once again to the crowd. ‘I am aware that you were encouraged and drawn into this… this…
insurrection
at the instigation of a persuasive and highly skilled bunch of deceptively convincing rogues, but the fact remains that you did, by your own choice, agree to gather together here today and to threaten the calm and order of the city of Bologna. And that, I cannot and will not tolerate. Do anything of the like again – any one of you – and you will find me considerably less accommodating than I have been today. Do I make myself clear?’

‘All too fucking clear!’ A rough male voice from somewhere in the crowd shouts out distinctly. ‘You’ve cocked up and someone else is going to have to pay for it. It won’t be the first time.’

A rumble of muttering.

Da Budrio’s colour is rising. ‘I will not endure such insubordination!’ he shouts and his voice is thick and raw with anger.

Several others in the crowd rally in support of the heckler and a flurry of jeering jibes can clearly be heard.

‘What d’you plan to do about it then, you pointless, two-
scudi
despot?’

‘You’ve treated us like dirt for long enough, you bastard!’

‘Justice! None of you knows the meaning of the bloody word!’

A dozen or so black-clad men are clustered in the doorway behind da Budrio; turning his head over his shoulder, he mutters inaudibly to the tallest of them, who snaps his fingers. The whole bunch strides out into the piazza, pushing a brutal way through the jostling crowd to where the heckler and his friends are still jeering. Staring, horrified, Beppe watches as three of them round on the protester, flooring the man with several well-aimed punches. The others, a few of whom have drawn short-bladed knives, have their backs to the fight, as though daring anyone to object, and the crowd pulls back, clearing a circle around the combatants.

Nobody tries to intervene. It seems, Beppe thinks, that the Bolognese desire for justice is perhaps not as passionate as their words have implied.

The men in black drag the heckler to his feet – he sags in their arms – and they pull him half-conscious through to where da Budrio still stands in the doorway of the town hall.

‘Take him away!’ da Budrio thunders. ‘As I said: I will not tolerate insurrection.’

No one speaks or utters a sound as the black-doubleted thugs half carry, half drag the protester out of sight through a nearby open doorway.

The piazza is still and silent.

Da Budrio glares around at them. ‘Be gone, the lot of you! And you, you actors – you too will be gone from the city’s walls by sunset. I have no wish to lay eyes on any one of you again.’

The crowd swirls quickly away, like dirty water down a drain, and within minutes, the Coraggiosi
are alone in the piazza, standing awkwardly, looking at each other and not speaking. Beppe has reluctantly relinquished his hold on Sofia, but has her hand gripped tightly in his; they stand side by side, pressed against each other, and Beppe can feel Sofia trembling. Her face is streaked with tears and dirt.

Agostino speaks first. His voice is tight and his face, Beppe thinks, looks somehow shrunken and older than it did even this morning. ‘Angelo,’ he says. ‘Thank you for what you’ve done. Thank you for getting her out.’

A murmur of agreement buzzes between the other members of the troupe. Angelo, however, looks deflated. His face too has altered. The arrogant aristocrat of a few moments ago has wilted, and his high-chinned, disdainful confidence has vanished, leaving a surprising air of anxiety and discomfort hanging about him like dirty rags. When Agostino says, ‘What did you say to him? How did you do it?’ Angelo merely shrugs and mutters, ‘I don’t know. There are just times when it is useful to have exalted antecedents, I suppose.’

Cosima moves across and gives him a hug, which Angelo does not return. Looking a little affronted, she stands back and puts a hand on his shoulder, saying, ‘Well, we are all very grateful, whatever you said.’

Federico clears his throat. ‘But we had better move, hadn’t we? However grateful we are.’ He nods towards Angelo. ‘Or we’ll all be in trouble.’

‘Oh, heavens, yes,’ Agostino says. ‘Sofia my love, we are so,
so
happy that you’re safely out.’ Striding across towards her, he pulls her away from Beppe and into an embrace; then, standing back and putting a hand on either side of her face, he stares down at her, a furrow of concern between his eyebrows for a second or two. Then he looks around at them all. ‘But Federico’s right. You heard what the man said… and you saw what’s just happened. We’re going to have to leave Bologna fast!’ He clicks his fingers. ‘I suggest we head down to Firenze.’

‘Firenze?’

‘Yes. We need to get out of Emilia-Romagna – away from da Budrio’s influence – and apart from anything else it will be warmer going south. We might be out in the open rather more than we had anticipated before now.’

Sofia looks at Beppe. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she starts to mutter. Her lip trembles and tears begin to swell in her eyes, but Beppe shakes his head.

Turning to face her, he runs a hand over her hair. ‘No. Stop it. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for – just don’t say it.’ Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kisses her knuckles. ‘I’m just glad you’re safe. We all are.’

Two small boys are standing beside the yellow wagon when they arrive at the patch of waste ground: glancing repeatedly from side to side, they are shifting their weight from foot to foot, blowing on their fingers. As the troupe approaches, their eyes widen – one leans towards the canvas cover and hisses loudly, before scrambling up and over a wall; the other ducks into an impossibly small gap between two buildings and vanishes, while the three horses start at the disturbance and pull on their tethers, their scraping feet kicking up dust and pebbles. A grubby little face peers out from inside the wagon and Beppe, Agostino and Vico all shout and break into a run. The third boy – smaller than the other two – vaults out of the wagon, a canvas bag in his hand, making for the wall over which his friend disappeared seconds before, but Vico grabs for and catches his ankle. ‘What the hell do you think you’re —?’ he begins, tugging downwards.

The boy kicks out and Vico falls back, swearing and covering his eye with his hand, but, snatching at the boy’s shirt, Beppe catches hold and pulls; the child falls at his and Vico’s feet, dropping the bag.

‘Piss off! Let me go!’ the boy says, spitting at Vico, who, one hand still clamped over his eye, has hold of the child’s leg again.

‘Piss off yourself, you little thief!’ Vico tugs at the child’s foot, pulling him further down onto his back. ‘What the hell were you doing in our wagon?’

The boy spits again but says nothing.

Pushing past Vico, Cosima bends down next to the boy and grabs at the collar of his oversized and tattered doublet: the jacket rucks up, covering the bottom half of the child’s face. Yanking him upwards, out of Vico and Beppe’s grasp, her normally passive face colours with anger and her eyes flash. ‘Tell me: what were you doing in that wagon?’ she says, now holding his upper arms and shaking him. Her voice cracks. The boy glares at her, but at least refrains from spitting a third time.

Agostino shouts, ‘Go on, tell us! What were you doing, you little —?’

His voice is thick with anger but Cosima looks up at him and shakes her head. ‘No. Leave this to me, Ago,’ she says, turning back to the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy says nothing.

‘As soon as we know who you are and why you were in our wagon, you can go.’

‘I’m not saying nothing – bloody murderers!’

‘What?’ Cosima loosens her grip on the boy’s arms and he jerks himself free.

Scrambling back from her, the boy glances from one shocked face to another and spits one last time into the dust at their feet. He begins to run. ‘That’s what they’re saying in the city,’ he says thickly over his shoulder. ‘Bloody murderers!’

Within seconds he has disappeared and the Coraggiosi stand staring at the place where he has vanished.

‘So,’ Vico says, touching his eye with the tip of one finger and grimacing. ‘That’s what Bologna thinks of us now. A bunch of assassins.’

Sofia puts her hands over her face.

Beppe glares at Vico and mouths, ‘Shut up,’ as he puts his arms around Sofia. Raising his hands in apology, Vico turns away, bending and picking up the canvas bag the child had let fall. Opening it, he peers inside. Frowns. His frown deepens as he reaches inside and pulls out a small brown corked bottle.

‘What the hell’s this?’ he says, pulling the cork with a little high-pitched ‘pop’ and sniffing curiously. ‘Smells awful.’

Nobody responds. Then Angelo, turning and seeing what Vico is holding, strides over, elbowing past Beppe and Sofia and snatching up both bag and bottle. ‘Keep your bloody hands off!’ he says in an odd, distorted voice. Clutching bottle and bag close to his chest, he edges between the wagons, and climbs up into the smallest cart without another word.

‘Well… what the…?’ Vico says, shaking his head.

‘Let me see that eye.’ Lidia is looking determinedly at him, chin lifted, frowning in consternation.

‘No, leave it. It’s just a black eye. It’ll mend itself.’

‘The skin’s split. I’ll wash it for you.’

‘It’s fine. I don’t need you to bother with it, and —’

‘I don’t care what you think you don’t need.’

As Vico and Lidia begin to bicker, Beppe turns to Sofia, who has seated herself on the bottom step of the smallest wagon. She has her face in her hands and the ends of her fingers are hidden in her hair. He sits next to her, edging her along the seat with his hip. Putting his arms around her, he holds her close.

‘What will the troupe do now, if we’re not allowed to perform in Bologna?’ she says, leaning against him, her face still covered. Her voice is distorted by her fingers.

Trying to ignore the cold lump of anxiety which lodged itself in his chest as da Budrio made his announcement, Beppe says, ‘Don’t worry – we’ll just find new territory, that’s all.’

‘God, everyone is going to hate me for making this happen. If Niccolò had never introduced me to you all, then —’

‘Then I would never have met you. And I wouldn’t…’ He tails off, rocked by the enormity of the notion of chance, and says no more, contenting himself with tightening his hold on her.

Agostino strides around the end of the wagon, his expression still set and serious. ‘We have to go. Beppe, help me harness Topo. She’s in a state and you’re the only one she won’t bite when she’s like this. I want to be out of here within the hour.’

Beppe nods. He squeezes Sofia’s shoulders and stands, following Agostino around to the front of the wagon.

‘I can’t deny it, Beppe,’ he mutters almost soundlessly as Beppe begins fastening the mare’s buckles and patting her neck as he bends to pass the girth-strap under her belly. ‘This is a dreadful blow. I’m not sure the troupe will survive it.’

His voice equally quiet, Beppe says, ‘Oh God, don’t say that, Ago! You can’t mean it! What’s to stop us starting again further south – like you suggested?’

The mare tosses her head and snorts angrily. Beppe shushes at her, scratching between her eyes, and holding fast to her bridle.

Agostino’s voice is now little more than a whisper. ‘You know as well as I do that it takes
years
to build up the sort of following we have along the route: people are waiting for us at each city now, crowds form in expectation of our arrival, word spreads ahead of us. That doesn’t just
happen
, does it?’