The Girl With the Painted Face (39 page)

‘He knows.’ Beppe does not take his eyes from Angelo’s face.

‘She was clearly innocent,’ Angelo says, staring back fixedly at Beppe, speaking as though there has been no interruption, ‘so I was happy to intervene. I’m just saying that despite her innocence, it is thanks to her that
we
were implicated in the whole unpleasant business, and that we’ve now been thrown out of Emilia-Romagna.’

‘No it bloody is
not
!’ Beppe’s voice cracks.

‘You go too far, Angelo,’ Agostino says. ‘Sofia is blameless – both of the murder and of any part in what followed. She’s nothing but a victim.’

‘You cannot deny, though, can you, that nothing seems to have run the way it used to since she arrived. And
you
’ve probably exacerbated it’ – Angelo points accusingly at Beppe – ‘by throwing yourself at her the way you have.’

Beppe’s mouth falls open, but he can think of no response.

Cosima says, ‘Angelo, that’s enough! We’re grateful to you for whatever you did back there which got our lovely girl released, of course we are, but I cannot sit by and listen to you speak to other troupe members like that, and —’

‘What are you saying?’ Beppe says, his voice little more than a whisper now. ‘Why should I not have got close to Sofia? Why should
you
care one way or the other? Jealous, are you?’

Angelo laughs. It is a sneering, mirthless little puff of air, no more, but Beppe tightens his fists. ‘Or is it just because it’s me? You just don’t want
me
to have her. What did I ever do? I was your friend. All those years ago I was your friend – and you turned your back on me and I’ve never known why.’

Vico, Agostino, Federico and Lidia all start to question Beppe at once, but he takes no notice of them, and then Angelo’s dismissive comment cuts through their clamour.

‘You’re pathetic,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘What is it that you’d like to hear? What do you want me to say?’ Beppe’s voice is still quiet, but rises as Angelo flicks him a sneering glance. ‘
Oh yes, you’re right,
’ he says loudly, ‘
I made a mistake. I hate to admit it but she’s trouble. I should never have got close to her – I had a feeling it was going to end badly right from the start
.’ He pauses, then hisses, ‘Something like
that
?’

‘Beppe…’ Lidia reaches out to take his hand, but Beppe shrugs his arm away from her. He is still staring at Angelo.

‘I’ve never said anything to anyone about what happened when we were lads. Never. Never told Agostino or anyone. Only Sofia, the other day.’

Agostino has stood up. ‘Beppe, what are you —?’

‘What am I saying?’ Beppe finally turns to look at Agostino, then around at the rest of the troupe. Everyone is staring at him, open-mouthed with bemused concern. He flicks a glance at Angelo, whose sneering glare seems, Beppe thinks, to be daring him to speak, daring him to reveal their shared past. He opens his mouth to explain, then closes it again. ‘Nothing,’ he says in a small, flat voice. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

Cosima shakes her head, her expression stricken.

Agostino’s gaze flicks from Beppe to Angelo and back, his mouth slightly open, a frown puckering his brow into deep ridges. ‘Angelo, what is Beppe talking about? When you were lads? Did you two know each other before? What is this?’ His voice tails off.

Angelo glances dismissively at Beppe and then turns to Agostino. ‘I have no idea what he’s talking about,’ he says. Picking up his dirty bowl and spoon from where it has been sitting at his feet, he walks away towards the wagons without another word.

Turning to a nearby tree, Beppe smacks out hard at the trunk with the palm of his hand. The impact stings wildly and he smothers an oath; then, leaning against the trunk, pressing his cheek against its cold roughness, he closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. He senses someone next to him, feels an arm about his shoulders. Wanting Sofia, he opens his eyes, but it is Lidia who has come to comfort him.

Her face is lined with concern. ‘What is this all about, Beppe? What’s going on between you two?’

Shaking his head, Beppe says nothing.

‘You knew each other before, didn’t you? I’ve always thought so.’

‘Yes. We did.’

‘When? Where? Why have you never said? Either of you?’

Beppe cannot look at her, or at Vico, who has joined them. ‘It’s difficult,’ he mutters, shrugging. ‘I’ll tell you some time. Not now.’

‘But…?’

‘Please, Lidia, I just can’t.’

She hugs him. ‘I’m sorry. Whatever you want, sweet boy. Tell us when you’re ready. We’re all badly rattled by everything that’s happened. It’s going to take a bit of time to settle, that’s all.’

Beppe nods.

‘I said the same to Sofia a few hours ago. It’ll just take a bit of time.’

‘Here.’ Vico, his eye still swollen and bruised, is holding out a mug of ale. ‘Have this. I’m having one.’

Taking it from him, Beppe returns to the brazier and, sitting back down on the little stool, he leans forward, cradling the mug in both hands, his arms resting heavily on his thighs.

‘Tell you what, though, there is one thing I’d like to know,’ Vico says, sitting down next to him, swallowing a mouthful of ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘and that’s where our handsome friend goes when he disappears – which he does considerably more often than anyone else. It’s not always in the same town, so I don’t think it’s a woman. Though there would be enough takers, I reckon.’ He snorts softly. ‘And – now I’m thinking about it – what was he so worked up about with that brown bottle the other day, when that little bastard urchin tried to ransack the wagons? What was that all about? Beppe, do you know?’

‘Brown bottle?’ Cosima asks.

Vico nods. ‘Mmm. Just before we left Bologna. The scabby little boy had pinched a bag from one of the carts – he dropped it when he ran off. I picked it up after he’d gone, and there was this brown glass bottle in it. Pulled the cork. It smelled of… oh God, I don’t know… rancid spices or something. I was just sniffing it when Angelo saw me. Snatched it off me and barked at me to keep my hands off it. Thought he was going to throw a punch.’

‘Spices?’ Cosima is looking puzzled.

Vico nods again. ‘Mmm. Spices. Sickly, though. Really strong. Made me feel a bit light-headed just sniffing the stuff.’

Agostino’s expression is serious. ‘Oh
cielo
, I don’t like the sound of that at all,’ he says, more to himself than to Vico. ‘Not at all.’ He sighs deeply. ‘Oh dear, what on earth is happening to us all?

‘
Do
you know, Beppe? Does whatever has happened – whatever it is that you don’t want to talk about – does it explain this little bottle? And Angelo’s absences?’

‘No. I know nothing about any of that – truly, Ago. I’d tell you if I knew.’

Agostino pats Beppe’s shoulder and turns to Cosima. ‘What do you think,
cara
?’

Compressing her lips, Cosima sighs. ‘I’ve always had my worries and doubts about Angelo. He’s always been… oh, I don’t know…
detached
from the rest of the troupe, hasn’t he? On his own, in a way. He doesn’t have a close friend amongst us, after all, does he?’

Agostino frowns. ‘Oh dear, I’m not liking the sound of all this at all. It all seems very troubling and uncertain. And spices? Goodness knows what’s in that bottle. I think I need to go and talk with him. I’ll go now, before he goes to sleep. Or disappears off again somewhere. Stay here, the rest of you, will you? I don’t want Angelo to think that we are stacking ourselves up against him.’

‘Even if we are…’ Vico says drily.

Agostino flashes him a look. Striding away from them over towards the wagons, arms tightly folded in front of him, head ducked forwards, he stops in front of the blue wagon. Beppe sees him shake his head; then, squaring his shoulders, Agostino reaches up and draws back the hangings, leaning in for a moment; he climbs up onto the wooden step and disappears inside.

A lump of wood shifts in the brazier and a shower of fat red sparks spatters out towards where Beppe, Lidia and Vico, Cosima, Federico and Giovanni Battista are sitting. One lands on Lidia’s skirts and she pats it away hastily. A silence has fallen amongst them all. Apart from a long sigh from Cosima and a phlegmy cough from Giovanni Battista, no one makes a sound. Only the hissing crackle of the fire breaks the stillness of the night air.

They sit wordlessly for several minutes; Beppe finds himself holding his breath, and realizes how fiercely he is straining to hear what might be being said in the blue wagon. Glancing at the others, he sees the same expression of taut concentration on each face that he can feel upon his own.

Then, standing, he says, ‘I’m going to Sofia – she said she had a headache. Do you have anything I can give her for it, Cosima?’

‘Look in the blue box in the smallest wagon. Niccolò left me some feverfew – take a cup of hot water and steep some of the flowers in it for her. It might help.’

Beppe nods his thanks and, scooping up a cup full of water from the iron pot on the brazier, he makes his way back over to the smallest wagon, where he and Sofia have been sleeping for the past few nights, curled together on the cramped truckle bed, sleeping fitfully, grateful for the warmth of each other’s bodies as the autumn nights have chilled.

Vaulting up over the tailgate, smiling in anticipation, he is surprised to see that the wagon is empty. His smile vanishes.

It takes no more than a couple of seconds to cross to the blue cart. Standing on the bottom step and leaning in through the hangings, he sees Angelo on his feet, one hand up on the canvas roof-cover, pointing an accusatory forefinger at Agostino. Agostino is shaking his head, mouth open as he tries to interrupt the angry flow.

‘You have absolutely no right to —’ Angelo breaks off and snatches his head around as Beppe clears his throat. ‘What the hell do
you
want?’

Seeing in an instant that Sofia is not there, Beppe makes no reply but draws back out of the wagon and runs, a little thread of anxiety beginning to tighten around his throat, towards the only place Sofia can be. The yellow wagon.

But it too is empty.

29

Maddalena stares out of her bedchamber window. A fluttering tremor in her belly startles her, and she presses a hand to it, tucking her chin down and staring at the place where the child has just kicked. Then, lifting that hand, she gazes at the palm, curling and uncurling her fingers, frowning at it, breathing a little faster as she contemplates what it has done. She has washed her hands a hundred times since, but they still feel dirty.

30

‘Go back! Go back, Ippo – please!’ Sofia bends and points back down the path, the tears hot in her eyes and suddenly chill on her cheeks. Her voice cracks as she says again, ‘Please,
caro
, go back!’

But the dog stands square, staring at her, tail slowly wagging and tongue lolling.

‘Go! I don’t want you!’

This last, though, is a lie. Sofia hisses at the dog once more, to absolve herself of guilt; then when Ippo still refuses to turn back, she crouches down, fondles his ears and hugs him, burying her face in the thick fur of his neck.

With the dog at her heels, she strides on, swallowing more often than is comfortable, breathing through an open mouth, for her nose is congested with crying; every few seconds she wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. It is very dark, though a fitful moon is shining at intervals through untidy clouds. She has no idea where she is going – but the thought of staying a moment longer after what she has just heard is entirely impossible.
Oh yes, you’re right, I made a mistake. I hate to admit it but she’s trouble. I should never have got close to her – I had a feeling it was going to end badly right from the start.
That’s what he said. She heard it clearly.
She’s trouble. She’s trouble. She’s trouble.
Beppe has been distant and different for days; ever since she was released from that dreadful place, he has been… not unkind, not unloving, but just different. She knew something was wrong right from the start, and so even if she is horrified and miserable at the thought of what she has just heard him say, she has to admit that she is not
surprised
. Such a sentiment is, after all, what she has half expected – and dreaded – ever since she first kissed him. Nothing that felt so wonderful could be allowed to last. She knows that she would not be able to bear seeing open rejection in his face, so leaving the troupe like this – before he can pretend to her that he wants her to stay – seems to be the only option.