The Girl With the Painted Face (53 page)

‘What the hell are you doing, Beppe? What in God’s name is going on out there?’

‘We couldn’t tell you beforehand, Ago —’

Agostino jabs his fingers into his hair, clutching at a clump near the top of his scalp. ‘Why? Why not? What on earth —?’

Beppe drops his voice and leans in close to Agostino. ‘He did it, Ago. We’re sure he killed da Correggio. We wanted Fosca to frighten him into admitting it.’

‘What? How do —? What in heaven’s name makes you th–? But —’ Agostino can do no more than splutter. He glances at the scenario board. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’m due on in a moment. There are…’ He checks the board more carefully. ‘… four
canovaccii
to go. The moment we’ve finished, Beppe, I want a proper explanation.’ He points an accusatory forefinger at him. ‘The very moment. And where the hell is Angelo? He’s due on in a second.’

Angelo elbows past Beppe, without looking at him. ‘I know when I’m due on, thank you, Agostino,’ he says, and his voice cracks as he speaks. ‘And I’ll be on stage exactly when I’m needed, no thanks to that fucking Bergamese peasant there.’ Glaring at Beppe, he hesitates for a moment, breathing slowly though an open mouth, then he climbs the ladder up to the space behind the backcloth.

41

The large and florid merchant embraces Agostino, then Cosima, then Sofia and Lidia in turn. He bows low to the other members of the troupe, his smile so wide it distorts his voice when he finally manages to speak. ‘Oh my dears, that was a triumph! A triumph! I’m so very proud that we are the first household in the area to have succeeded in engaging such a…’ He struggles to find the apposite word. ‘… such an
extraordinary
group of performers so soon after their arrival in the province. You will go on to great things in Toscana, I’m quite certain. Great things. And you performed here first!’

Agostino’s smile of gratitude is equally wide and clearly heartfelt, though Sofia can see anxiety tautening his features. ‘You are too generous, signore,’ he says, bowing to the nobleman.

‘Indeed I am not. Merely honest.’ The merchant clears his throat. ‘Now, you shall have a couple of rooms here in the villa in which to stay tonight, if you want them, and as much as you wish to eat and drink.’

Agostino opens his mouth to speak, but the merchant, frowning a little now, continues, this time with a note of apology in his voice. ‘I do most earnestly beg your forgiveness, though… I shall be unable to join you for your meal this evening. I had so very much hoped to do so, but I’m afraid another – far less enjoyable – commitment has arisen and is rudely demanding my presence.’

Agostino assures him that his absence, though of course regrettable, will not diminish their pleasure in the extremely generous hospitality he has offered them, and, amidst numerous bows, and smiles and handshakes and repeated paeans of praise, the merchant takes his leave, leaving the Coraggiosi in the care of three of his servants, who immediately show the troupe through to a large room at one end of which a vast fire is merrily blazing.

‘Signori and signore, we shall return shortly with food,’ the thinnest of the servants assures the Coraggiosi, backing out of the room with his two companions. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable whilst you wait.’

As the door shuts behind the servants, Agostino turns to the troupe, and, with a frisson of anxiety, Sofia sees that the smile has quite faded from his face.

‘We have much to discuss, I think,’ he says. His voice is quiet, but it carries across the big room with ease.

Beppe puts an arm around Sofia’s shoulders; she bends her arm up and links her fingers through his.

‘Beppe,’ Agostino says. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain the changes you made to this evening’s performance. And –
NO!
’ His voice is suddenly thunderous. ‘Angelo, you will
not
leave the room! You will stay and listen – and speak when it is time for you to do so. I think you may have much to say – and there may well be much from you that we shall want to hear.’

Looking around, Sofia sees that Angelo has frozen with one hand on the handle of the door through which the servants have just left. He releases his grip and slouches over to sit on a nearby cross-framed chair, arms folded tightly across his chest.

‘Beppe, explain!’

Vico clears his throat and interrupts. ‘Ago, it wasn’t just Beppe. He had the idea of using Fosca only because of my suspicions. I began this.’

‘Very well. But I’m waiting to hear anything – from
either
of you – that can
begin
to explain why you chose to jeopardize the success of such an important performance. You
knew
how vital this show was to our establishing a presence down here! You
knew
that word would spread quickly from here and that other potential patrons would undoubtedly hear from our host tonight about the quality of the play he commissioned.’ Agostino wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘And yet you chose to… to… undermine one of the most important performers by hurling unrehearsed material at him in front of an audience. How
could
you? If it hadn’t been for Angelo’s level head, the show might have collapsed entirely!’

Beppe glances across at Vico. ‘We had good reasons, Ago.’

‘Explain them.’

And between the two of them, Beppe and Vico attempt to do just that.

As the story unfolds, Sofia, whose gaze is flicking from Beppe and Vico to Angelo and back, sees the latter losing colour and stiffening. His exquisitely proportioned face has rapidly become drawn and white, and a muscle is twitching in his jaw, deepening the hollow there. Every few seconds, he runs his tongue over his lips.

Agostino and the others listen to Beppe and Vico without a word: Agostino is stony-faced; Cosima tight-lipped and miserable; Federico is shaking his head and Giovanni Battista frowning with bemusement. Niccolò is warily shifting his gaze from Agostino to Angelo and back, his expression set and taut.

‘And’, Beppe says, finishing his story, ‘I suppose it was following on from Sofia’s idea in Bologna – of creating a scene to flush the guilty party out by confronting them with their crimes – that I thought of Fosca.’ He swallows uncomfortably. ‘Fosca does that better than anyone. We knew we had no certain evidence, so we wanted to do something that would at least bring things out into the open, if not actually provide any proof.’

A long and very uncomfortable pause stretches out.

Agostino then opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a word, there is a knock at the door of the big chamber and the three servants come back in, smiling broadly and bearing trays laden with food.

Thanks are given, the servants’ requests for the food to be served are politely refused, respectful bows are made and the servants leave the room once more.

Staring at the closed door for several seconds, Agostino hesitates, then turns to Angelo. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘What do you have to say to all this?’

Angelo snorts. ‘I don’t have to answer to
them
.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Agostino says coldly, ‘but, given my position as the head of the Coraggiosi, you
do
have to answer to
me
.’ He glances across at Beppe, who is now hand in hand with Sofia on a low seat near the fire. ‘What do you say to these charges, Angelo?’

‘They’re ridiculous.’

‘Is there any basis of fact in anything these two have said? Anything at all?’

Angelo’s pallor flushes dark. He says nothing.

‘This opium?’ Agostino says. ‘What about that?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

Agostino glares at him. ‘Well,
I
would rather that you
did
say.’

‘Well, then, yes. I have taken it – at least I’ve taken laudanum – in the past.’ Angelo sounds defensive and irritable.

‘The recent past?’

A sulky shrug is the only answer Agostino receives.

‘And from where have you obtained it? From one particular source? Or a variety?’

There is something inexorable and irresistible about Agostino’s voice and his unwavering stare. Watching, breath held and with heartbeat racing, Sofia sees Angelo’s tightly set mouth twitch, sees the tip of a red tongue dart out to wet his lower lip and knows that he is about to reveal the truth.

‘One in particular,’ he says.

‘Who was that?’

There is another long and painful pause. ‘Sebastiano da Correggio.’

A soft intake of breath can be heard from everyone in the room.

Agostino waits a second or two, then says in a slow and expressionless voice, ‘Angelo, did you have anything to do with that man’s death?’

Turning his head away, Angelo stares hard at the floor. His arms are tightly folded in front of his chest and his shoulders have hunched as though to avoid a physical blow. He shrugs again.

‘Tell us what happened.’ Agostino’s voice is now little more than a whisper, and his expression is terrible. Watching him now, Sofia thinks that it will certainly be something like this facing the recording angel; Angelo surely cannot refuse this steely demand for the truth.

He draws in a long breath, holds it for several seconds, then releases it in a puff. In a fast, clipped monotone he begins to speak. ‘Sebastiano had a friend in Switzerland – a man who worked with an old apothecary called von Hohenheim. A few years ago this friend told him that von Hohenheim had invented a way of preserving opium in alcohol. It kills pain better than any other substance yet found.’

Everyone turns to look at Niccolò, who nods his agreement with this.

Angelo flicks a glance at Niccolò, then stares resolutely back at the rush-strewn floor. ‘But it doesn’t just kill pain.’ Glancing up at Agostino, his eyes are burning. ‘It makes you feel… oh God, it makes you feel…
released…
when you take it. Ecstatic. It’s almost impossible to find in Italy – it’s still practically unknown here – but Sebastiano knew this friend of von Hohenheim and he was able to receive regular deliveries.’

No one speaks or moves. All eyes are now on Angelo.

He shrugs and says, ‘It was easy to start with, but, after a couple of times when I was late paying him, Sebastiano started to be difficult about dealing with me. Unpleasant, to be honest. I should have walked away from him – but… when you need the stuff as badly as… I… I mean… I didn’t know how to stop.’

Beppe’s grip on Sofia’s hand tightens. Glancing up at him, she sees that his expression is easily as stony and angry as Agostino’s.

‘Just before we went to Franceschina,’ Angelo continues, ‘I saw da Correggio in Bologna, and he refused to allow me to take a promised delivery… without paying in full. I’d already told him I’d get all the money to him after the performance, once I’d been paid myself, but… but he took great delight in refusing, and packing me off out of his house like a scolded child. He said he’d give me what I wanted only when I’d handed over the money.’

Angelo pushes his fingers through his hair.

‘Go on,’ Agostino says.

Glancing at him, then dropping his gaze to the floor again, Angelo says, ‘He let me have one tiny bottle, part-full, to last me until I saw him again, but I tripped on the way back to the wagons and broke it and lost the contents, so when we arrived at Franceschina, I was pretty near desperate. I spoke to da Correggio and asked him for the bottles he’d promised me, but he was adamant. Said he didn’t want to deal with me any more. He taunted me – he’d had a big delivery from Switzerland the day before, he told me, but he’d decided to keep it, and to sell it on to more… more… reliable payers. I couldn’t bear the thought of doing without, though, so I… I suggested an alternative way of paying him. Something I thought would catch his attention. And it did.’

A log crumbles in the big fireplace, sending a shower of sputtering red out onto the rush-strewn hearth. Federico reaches out a foot and presses his heel down upon the tiny glowing specks.

Angelo glances at Sofia, but looks away quickly. ‘I had seen him watching… watching Sofia earlier in the day. I’d seen how he was looking at her. It gave me an idea.’ Angelo’s voice is now almost inaudible and he is massaging one hand with the fingers of the other, pushing the ball of his thumb fiercely into the opposite palm. ‘I suggested to him that I could… steer Sofia his way after the show. I think that was how I phrased it to him.’

Sofia’s mouth drops open. Her skin is prickling and her lips feel cold. She seems to have forgotten how to blink, and her eyes quickly begin to sting as she stares at Angelo. Beppe mutters something she cannot hear. His hold on her hand is now so tight it is almost painful. She wriggles her fingers and he starts, glances at her, then lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

Swallowing twice, Angelo pulls in a couple of long breaths before continuing. Other than his voice, the room is in total silence. ‘Sebastiano seemed excited by the idea. He agreed that… in return for an hour of Sofia’s time, I could have a bottle.’ He turns to Beppe. ‘Obviously, I needed to get you out of the way, so I went out to the wagons… and…’

Beppe shakes his head slowly, and Sofia can hear him whispering, almost inaudibly, ‘No – no, you can’t have done…’