speak. Pushing his mask up and off his face so that it falls to the floor with a clatter, he puts his arms around Sofia and, without a word, he kisses her. His mouth is on hers, and her hands are in his hair, and her body is pressing against his, soft and pliant and eager. Stepping backwards, he feels the heavy folds of the backdrop shift behind him – another step in that direction and they will be on the stage. The ladder leading down from the trestles is a pace to the right.
‘Go back down the steps.’
As Sofia reaches back with her foot to find the first rung of the ladder, Beppe lets go of her, vaults down off the trestles and then lifts his arms to her; she turns to him and he picks her off the ladder, starting to kiss her again even before her feet have reached the ground. They lean together against the ladder, arms around each other, so entirely engrossed in their embrace that they hear nothing of the stream of hissed comments that are now coming from Simone da Bologna.
‘Quick! Stop it – let go of each other! You’re on stage again in a minute! Sofia! Signor Bianchi, you’ll have to wait until we —’
Neither Sofia nor Beppe are listening, though Beppe feels his shoulder being roughly shaken, and vaguely hears, as though from a distance, Simone da Bologna hiss-calling, ‘Prudenza! Quick, come here.’
Beppe, his mouth on Sofia’s, one hand at her back, the other in her hair, feels as though he could never have enough of her. He cannot hold her close enough. She is wriggling in against him, making soft little sounds of pleasure – not words, just inarticulate half-sighs – as she kisses him. Then other, bigger, male hands take hold of his upper arms and pull him back, away from Sofia. He jerks away, trying to free himself from whoever is holding him, but a laughing voice says, ‘Don’t worry – just get the jacket off him, will you? I’ll take over – but I need my costume. And hurry! My cue is in a moment or two!’
The same hands reach around him from behind and Beppe feels unknown fingers beginning to unfasten the diamond-patterned jacket.
‘Prudenza, get the dress off Sofia.’
Beppe hears a squeak from Sofia, and feels her grip on the back of his neck tightening as she is pulled backwards away from him. For a moment their bodies are held apart from each other, though they struggle to maintain their kiss and their mouths are still touching. Beppe feels the jacket being pulled off him, first one sleeve jerked down over an arm, then the second, and, glancing behind Sofia, he sees a dark-haired, plump woman, frantically unpinning and unlacing Colombina’s dress and easing open the back of the bodice. She crouches behind Sofia for a moment and Beppe hears her amused voice, saying, ‘Quick, cara , step out of the skirts, will you?’
Sofia obliges, her arms now back around Beppe. She is dressed now only in shift and underskirt, he in nothing but the diamond-patterned leggings. He can feel her hands on the skin of his chest and back.
Simone’s voice says, ‘I’m not even going to try getting the leggings off him – I’ll have to use my old ones. But where’s my mask?’
‘He dropped it up there, look.’
Another, unfamiliar voice. ‘Here are the leggings, Simone.’
After a moment’s frantic rustle of clothing, there is a muttered oath, then footsteps on the ladder, followed by a brief burst of applause and a couple of whistles from the crowd.
The play unfolds behind and above Beppe and Sofia, and they take in not one word of it: it is no more than a jumble of noise, interspersed with laughter and clapping. Seated as they are at the foot of the ladder, entwined in each other’s arms, there are moments of interruption when unknown pairs of legs step over and around them, muttering apologies – once or twice Beppe thinks he hears a smothered snort of amusement – but not for a second does it occur to either of them to pause, to stop what they are doing, to search for a more
‘Go back down the steps.’
As Sofia reaches back with her foot to find the first rung of the ladder, Beppe lets go of her, vaults down off the trestles and then lifts his arms to her; she turns to him and he picks her off the ladder, starting to kiss her again even before her feet have reached the ground. They lean together against the ladder, arms around each other, so entirely engrossed in their embrace that they hear nothing of the stream of hissed comments that are now coming from Simone da Bologna.
‘Quick! Stop it – let go of each other! You’re on stage again in a minute! Sofia! Signor Bianchi, you’ll have to wait until we —’
Neither Sofia nor Beppe are listening, though Beppe feels his shoulder being roughly shaken, and vaguely hears, as though from a distance, Simone da Bologna hiss-calling, ‘Prudenza! Quick, come here.’
Beppe, his mouth on Sofia’s, one hand at her back, the other in her hair, feels as though he could never have enough of her. He cannot hold her close enough. She is wriggling in against him, making soft little sounds of pleasure – not words, just inarticulate half-sighs – as she kisses him. Then other, bigger, male hands take hold of his upper arms and pull him back, away from Sofia. He jerks away, trying to free himself from whoever is holding him, but a laughing voice says, ‘Don’t worry – just get the jacket off him, will you? I’ll take over – but I need my costume. And hurry! My cue is in a moment or two!’
The same hands reach around him from behind and Beppe feels unknown fingers beginning to unfasten the diamond-patterned jacket.
‘Prudenza, get the dress off Sofia.’
Beppe hears a squeak from Sofia, and feels her grip on the back of his neck tightening as she is pulled backwards away from him. For a moment their bodies are held apart from each other, though they struggle to maintain their kiss and their mouths are still touching. Beppe feels the jacket being pulled off him, first one sleeve jerked down over an arm, then the second, and, glancing behind Sofia, he sees a dark-haired, plump woman, frantically unpinning and unlacing Colombina’s dress and easing open the back of the bodice. She crouches behind Sofia for a moment and Beppe hears her amused voice, saying, ‘Quick, cara , step out of the skirts, will you?’
Sofia obliges, her arms now back around Beppe. She is dressed now only in shift and underskirt, he in nothing but the diamond-patterned leggings. He can feel her hands on the skin of his chest and back.
Simone’s voice says, ‘I’m not even going to try getting the leggings off him – I’ll have to use my old ones. But where’s my mask?’
‘He dropped it up there, look.’
Another, unfamiliar voice. ‘Here are the leggings, Simone.’
After a moment’s frantic rustle of clothing, there is a muttered oath, then footsteps on the ladder, followed by a brief burst of applause and a couple of whistles from the crowd.
The play unfolds behind and above Beppe and Sofia, and they take in not one word of it: it is no more than a jumble of noise, interspersed with laughter and clapping. Seated as they are at the foot of the ladder, entwined in each other’s arms, there are moments of interruption when unknown pairs of legs step over and around them, muttering apologies – once or twice Beppe thinks he hears a smothered snort of amusement – but not for a second does it occur to either of them to pause, to stop what they are doing, to search for a more
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