The Girl with the Painted Face Page 14

  Sofia watches as the others wander away. She and Beppe wait together, watching Agostino, who is consulting a small wood-backed book. Frowning, he flips over a few pages. ‘Yes, here we are: the reconciliation. It still needs a little polishing, I feel, don’t you?’

  Sofia clears her throat, and a prickle of embarrassment sends more colour up into her face as she remembers the repeated mistakes of the previous rehearsal. Seeing her discomfiture, Agostino crosses to stand in front of her and puts a hand on each of her upper arms. Shaking her very slightly on each important word, he says, ‘Sofia, cara, you are doing so very, very well – I am proud of you. You’ve proved a hundred times already that we have made an excellent decision in asking you to act for us, so you are simply forbidden to be downhearted that I want to work further on this scene. Is that understood?’ He runs a hand over her hair and strokes along her cheekbone with the edge of his thumb.

  His face is close to hers; his expression is so fierce and yet so very kind that Sofia is moved in an instant almost to tears. Unable to answer, she nods, and Beppe leans forward and kisses her cheek.

  ‘There you are, chick, I told you,’ he says.

  Cosima reappears with a pewter mug. ‘Last night’s ale,’ she says. ‘All I could find.’

  Leaning towards her and cupping a hand behind her head, Agostino kisses his wife enthusiastically, then drains several long mouthfuls from the mug before handing it back to her. Cosima smiles her slow smile, finishes what is left in the mug and returns to the wagons.

  ‘So,’ Agostino says, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. ‘Off we go. From I am truly a fool, I think, Beppe.’

  Cracking his knuckles, Beppe crosses to sit on an upturned barrel and puts his head in his hands in a droop-shouldered attitude of utter dejection. ‘Oh my word, but I am truly a fool,’ he says, gazing up at Sofia and shaking his head sadly. ‘And you will never forgive me, will you?’

  ‘No, now that you mention it, I’m not sure that I shall.’

  ‘Turn away now, Sofia,’ Agostino says. ‘You need to be facing out that way.’

  Sofia flicks what she hopes is a disdainful glance at the miserable Beppe and spins on her heel, folding her arms in front of her.

  ‘Good. Stay that way until he comes up to you, then spin around and walk across away from him.’

  Beppe appears, hands clasped in entreaty, but she turns again and takes half a dozen quick paces in the opposite direction.

  ‘And again. Beppe, be quick – get there before she does.’

  Before Sofia has reached the designated spot, Beppe is there and he drops to one knee. ‘Just one more chance?’

  ‘Make him wait, Sofia. Make him wait. Just stare at him. Take as long as you want – the audience will wait with you.’

  Sofia looks at Beppe, kneeling in front of her, staring up at her imploringly. Her gaze flicks to his mouth, then back to his eyes. Her heartbeat quickens.

  ‘Now your hand.’

  Sofia holds out her hand. Beppe takes it in both of his own, very gently, and plants a kiss on the tip of each finger, looking up at her after each kiss. ‘Just one more?’ he says. ‘One more very small’ – kiss – ‘extremely insignificant’ – kiss – ‘little chance?’ – kiss.

  Sofia pulls her hand from his and pauses for a moment; then, holding it out to him once more, she says, ‘Very well. Just one.’ Another pause. ‘One last.’ And she allows him to kiss her knuckles before turning away from him again. Behind her, she hears a quiet scuffling sound and knows that Beppe will be dancing from foot to foot in silent celebration. As she has been told to, she flicks a glance over one shoulder and, seeing the dance, she smiles at him indulgently.

  ‘Good… and go back now, Sofia – you’ve decided. You’re going to let him kiss you properly.’

  Sofia holds her breath. She steps back towards Beppe. ‘Perhaps I might let you have just one… proper… kiss…’ she says, raising an eyebrow. Beppe looks out towards the ‘audience’ and grins, rubbing his hands together in glee, before turning back to her and nodding enthusiastically.

  Arms held slightly backwards, Sofia tilts from the waist and leans towards Beppe, presenting him with a puckered mouth. He does the same. Their feet are perhaps a yard apart, but, leaning in towards each other, their lips are almost touching. Almost.

  Their faces are an inch apart. They both close their eyes tightly. Their kiss – still with air between the two of them – is vocal and theatrical and Agostino claps.

  Sofia’s pulse races as Beppe’s gaze remains fixed upon hers for several seconds.

  ‘Much, much better. Well done, Sofia, well done both of you.’

  ‘Was that good enough?’ Sofia says anxiously, looking from Beppe to Agostino and back again.

  ‘Oh, cara, it was indeed. It was perfect. We’ll run through the whole show again – twice – tomorrow, then we perform in Malalbergo the following afternoon, and you will triumph, cara, you will triumph indeed!’ He beams at her. ‘But first, you must go and find Lidia, and sort out your costume.’

  13

  There is no doubt about it: Columbina’s pretty grey dress is far too big for Sofia. Standing behind her, Lidia pulls the laces as tightly as they will go, until the fabric between the eyelets begins to pucker, but the bodice still hangs loose and shapeless.

  ‘I knew you were small, but I didn’t realize firstly how very tiny you really are, and secondly how fat I must be,’ Lidia says grumpily. ‘Look at it – you could fit three of you in there.’ She scowls. ‘And it was beginning to feel tight on me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Sofia says. ‘You’re just lovely. It’s me that’s stupidly little.’

  Lidia huffs a disbelieving breath. ‘Well, whichever of us is oddly sized, that dress is going to need unpicking and remaking if you’re to be seen in it on stage in a couple of days’ time.’

  ‘I can do it right away. It’s only the bodice that’ll need taking in; we can just lace the skirts more tightly at the waist. It won’t take me long. Can you pin it in place for me?’

  ‘Where are the pins?’

  Sofia points to a small painted chest on the ground near the back steps of the smallest wagon. ‘There’s a paper of pins in there,’ she says. ‘I found them in the wagon the other day and put them in that little box with the red flowers on it.’

  Lidia retrieves the said box and pulls from it a piece of stiff, waxed paper about three inches by five, folded several times. As she holds it up, it flaps down revealing parallel rows of shining pins, neatly in-and-outed through the paper.

  ‘Lift your arms up again for a moment, then.’ Sofia raises her arms, and Lidia takes a handful of fabric on either side of her.

  ‘If you can just pinch the fabric roughly in where it needs to be,’ Sofia says, ‘and pin it so that the excess cloth is still sticking outwards…’

  Lidia obliges, then unfastens the laces again and helps Sofia to take the bodice off.

  Sofia, in shift and skirt, holds up the pinned bodice and, frowning, examines where the pins have been placed. ‘Do you think it’d be possible to set up a table?’ she says. ‘It’ll be so much easier to do this if I can lay it flat.’

  ‘I’ll ask Vico.’

  A table is found. Sofia, having detached the laced sleeves from the bodice, lays it out flat and quickly repositions Lidia’s hastily placed pins so that they mark the line of the new seams-to-be with more accurate definition. Then she turns the bodice inside out.

  ‘Oh, I do wish I still had my scissors,’ she says with a sigh.

  ‘Scissors?’ Lidia has seated herself on the back steps of the wagon and is eating a torn hunk of bread.

  ‘Mmm. I used to have a beautiful pair of tiny spring-scissors, made of steel. My mother gave them to me when I was a little girl and they were very small, very lovely and sharp as a razor. Just perfect for snipping away even the smallest of stitches. They had belonged to my grandmother before. But thanks to that horrible man in Modena, I left the city in such a
panic that I had no time to collect anything – and my darling scissors were left behind.’ Picturing her mother, she feels the familiar sharp pang at the thought of her loss.

  ‘We’ve only got the one pair of shears,’ Lidia says, pulling a doubtful face and shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, I know. They’re good and sharp, but they’re much too big for this job. They’ll cut away the excess cloth nicely when I’m done, but this’ll take a knife. I’ll go and ask Cosima.’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get it.’

  Lidia returns in a moment with a short-bladed knife with a carved wooden handle. Testing the blade against the ball of her thumb, Sofia smiles her approval.

  Pins in place, she sits back down on an upturned barrel. Bunching the fabric of the bodice in her left hand, holding it up so that the sunlight falls on the stitched seams, Sofia fits the point of the little knife under the first stitch and flicks upwards, slitting through the thread with ease; then, working her way down first one side and then the other, she unpicks the two seams.

  Repinning the bodice to fit her takes Sofia and Lidia a few moments of twisting and turning, arm-raising and pin-tweaking; once satisfied that it is now snug and comfortable, Sofia bundles it up in her arms and sits down on her barrel. Threading a needle, she tacks the two new seams in place with long stitches; then she takes the pins out and pushes them back into the waxed paper, returning the paper to the little box.

  As always when she sews, her thoughts begin to wander. To Mamma, of course. Poor Mamma; Sofia wonders if she will ever lose the images burned into her memory on that last, dreadful day. What would Mamma think of her now: sitting here, stitching a dress in which she is going to walk onto a stage – as an actress? Her heart jumps at the very thought of it. She wishes, perhaps more than ever, that her mother were still here. How very much she would love to be able to tell her about finding Niccolò and being introduced to the troupe, about learning to act – and most of all about Beppe and her fragile, burgeoning hopes. What would Mamma have thought of him, she wonders?

  She has been busily stitching for some time, and is now alone, humming to herself. Lidia has gone to help Cosima prepare the evening meal. One side seam is complete, the lining has been cut and fitted and neatly hemmed into place, and she is halfway through the second side, when a soft cough startles her.

  She looks up.

  Beppe is standing near, watching her intently; she has no idea how long he has been there. Seeing him, her cheeks flame and she puts a hand to her hair, which she knows is tangled and unkempt. She fiddles a curl back behind one ear.

  ‘I’ve just been into town and I found something I thought you might like,’ Beppe says. ‘At the market.’ He has a paper packet in his hands.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. Look.’ Opening the packet, he shows Sofia the contents: two golden rings of what looks like gleaming and sugared bread. ‘Ciambelle,’ he says.

  ‘What are ciambelle? They look lovely.’

  ‘You’ve never had a ciambella?’ Beppe sounds astonished. ‘Put that down for a moment’ – he nods at the bodice – ‘and we’ll have one each. You’ll love it.’

  Sofia reaches across and lays the bodice on the table. Sitting cross-legged on the ground near her feet, Beppe hands her one of the rings. It is warm, and the sugar dusted over its surface glitters in the sunlight. Lifting it to her nose, Sofia sniffs it; she can smell yeast and butter, a sharp edge of lemon, and another sweet smell she does not recognize.

  ‘Go on – try it!’ Beppe says quietly, and she takes a bite.

  It is delicious: doughy, softer and sweeter than bread. Smiling as she feels the sugar sticking to her lips, she raises a hand to brush it away, but Beppe leans quickly towards her and catches her wrist. ‘No, stop! See how many bites you can take without brushing away the sugar or licking your lips,’ he says, and his eyes are dancing. He is watching her mouth. ‘I’ll do it too. Let’s see if either of us can eat a whole ciambella without licking.’

  Sofia laughs. She takes another bite, and Beppe too begins to eat.

  It is an almost impossible task, she quickly discovers. At every bite more sugar clings to her lips and the temptation to lick it away soon becomes almost unbearable. Beppe’s mouth, too, is now covered with the stuff, and as she watches him struggling to resist the inevitable, it occurs to Sofia that she would perhaps prefer to lick the sugar from his mouth rather than her own.

  This thought makes her feel as though her insides are dissolving.

  Thus momentarily distracted, she forgets to resist, and Beppe laughs as she licks her lips. ‘It’s impossible, isn’t it?’ he says, licking his own, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then reaching over to brush the remaining sugar from Sofia’s face. At his touch, her smile fades and she holds her breath, her gaze flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back.

  Beppe too looks suddenly serious.

  They stare at each other for several long seconds.

  He moves a little closer and Sofia can feel his breath warm on her face. Tilting his face to one side, he touches her lips with his own, and the grains of sugar are gritty between them. Then a shout of laughter from within the wagon breaks the fragile threads that have quickly spun out between them and Beppe steps back.

  Looking down at the remains of the ciambella in his hand and holding up the last little piece, he puts it into Sofia’s mouth, brushing the crumbs of sugar away with great tenderness.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘That was lovely.’ She is not sure whether she means the ciambella or the touch of Beppe’s fingers and lips on her face. ‘I should finish my seams.’

  Beppe nods, his expression still solemn. ‘I’ll fetch you something to drink. They make you thirsty, do ciambelle.’ He sucks his fingers and thumb, one by one, still watching Sofia, then turns and walks away towards where Cosima and Lidia are preparing the food.

  Her heart beating fast, her thoughts whirling, Sofia wipes her fingers carefully on a cloth, then picks up the part-mended bodice and begins once more to stitch. Her hands are trembling.

  14

  Malalbergo, not far from Bologna

  It is nearing midday when the wagons of the Coraggiosi rumble up into the piazza in the centre of the little town of Malalbergo, some miles north of Bologna. The early autumn light is bright and yellow, and the shadows of the wagons have deepened to purplish-blue blots, distorting around the wheels and under the bellies of the horses as they pick their way over the uneven surfaces of the roads.

  A small but cheerful crowd has come out to greet the new arrivals: perhaps fifty or sixty people have clustered in groups along the road leading into the piazza, and the Coraggiosi wave and smile in acknowledgement of the welcome. Beppe and Vico are tumbling and clowning out in front as usual, and Cosima and Angelo, on their pretty ponies, are trotting neatly behind the wagons, scattering rose petals by the handful. Sofia, much to her delight, is wearing the newly altered grey dress and walking just behind Beppe and Vico, waving and smiling, and ‘shooing’ the two men away when they double back and try to pester her, much to the amusement of the watching crowd. Lidia, Agostino, Giovanni Battista and Federico, driving the wagons, are calling out the details of the coming performance.

  Every now and again, Beppe catches Sofia’s eye and her heart turns over. He is wearing his black mask now, and it is impossible to determine his expression, but the kisses he has blown her and the moment just now when he came close to her and whispered in her ear – ‘You look so beautiful’ – have sent her pulse rate soaring and she is finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on staying in character.

  There is a little more than an hour until it all begins. The stage is up, the properties are in place and a couple of tables and several benches have been set up in the space between two wagons, where the Coraggiosi have begun to prepare. Lanterns have been lit, for the light is poor this afternoon, and everyone is busy getting ready to paint their faces and put on their costumes.

  �
�You’re so lucky with your hair, cara,’ Lidia says from her place on the bench next to Sofia. ‘I wish mine were curly like yours. Then I wouldn’t need…’ She pats an almost black, tightly curled, brightly beribboned pile of wool which lies limply on the table near to where she is sitting. ‘It’s so hot and scratchy. Now listen – we do each other’s faces quite often, as we only have the one glass mirror. It’s Cosima’s and she hates to share it.’

  Sofia looks across to where Cosima, hair scraped back behind a ribbon, is peering into a gilt-framed looking glass, frowning and poking at her chin with a finger.

  ‘Ago bought it for her in Venezia a couple of years ago.’ Lidia smiles at Sofia as she lays out an array of little earthenware pots, glass jars, bowls, scraps of sponge and torn squares of linen. ‘All the other mirrors we have are metal, and not much better than useless.’ She flaps a small square of polished steel towards Sofia. ‘Would you like me to do your face for you? It’s not that easy – not until you get used to it.’