suitable place to resume their rediscovery of each other.
‘ Oh my word, but I am truly a fool, ’ he says indistinctly, in between kisses. ‘ And you will never forgive me, will you? ’He wonders if Sofia will remember the lines.
‘ No, now that you mention it, I’m not sure that I shall. ’
She mutters the response, her words almost indistinguishable as her mouth is on his, and he cannot help smiling.
‘ Just one more chance? ’ he says, pulling back for a second and holding her gaze. ‘ One more very small… extremely insignificant… little chance? ’
She stares at him, her expression taut and serious, and Beppe holds his breath. Then her face dissolves into a wide smile and her eyes are sparkling with tears. ‘ Very well. Just one .’ A pause. ‘ One last .’
They carry on kissing as the final prolonged burst of applause from the crowd fills the air. They fail to stop even as the actors burst through the hanging and jostle down the ladder, stumbling over them, apologizing; one or two of them laugh and clap at the sight of the two oblivious lovers, while another offers a decidedly lewd suggestion as to what they should best do next and where.
38
‘What did you say he called me?’
‘An underage bardassa with the morals of a tomcat , I think it was,’ Marco says, shaking his head, fiddling a shred of dry skin on his lip between his teeth. The tavern table in front of him is stained with ale and pitted with worm holes, and the tallow candle stub, stuck straight onto the wood, is giving out little more than a fitful, flickering, sheep-smelling glow.
Fabio da Correggio raises an eyebrow. Blowing out his cheeks and letting the air puff out of his mouth, he says, ‘How bloody rude.’ Then, grinning, he adds, ‘Though I suppose he wasn’t that far wrong, really, was he? Bastard.’ The grin fades. ‘God, though, I’d never have wanted that sort of an end for him. He was our cousin. Terrible. And they haven’t caught whoever did it?’
Marco’s heart flips over as he looks at his cousin: slight, smooth-cheeked, as fine-featured as many of the women of his acquaintance, as gaudily dressed as any of the performers at that last play. He decides to tell him the truth. ‘No. They haven’t. And you and I are getting off up to Verona fast, before they have time to think of accusing me .’
Fabio grins at him. ‘You didn ’ t do it, did you?’
‘No I bloody didn’t!’ His voice comes out higher-pitched than he meant. There have been so many moments, since he sat in that room at Franceschina with Sebastiano’s body, staring at the seeping stain on the pillow around his cousin’s head, when he has anxiously wondered if he might have done. Done it and somehow forgotten. Though he knows he could never have lifted the candlestick and… and brought it down onto the back of Sebastiano’s head like that, every time he has heard people speculating about the possible identity of the killer over the past few days he has felt heat rising in his face, and has dreaded an unstoppable rush of colour proclaiming a guilt he knows he does not possess. Or hopes he does not possess. Because how many times had he in fact wished his cousin dead? On how many occasions, facing yet more of Sebastiano’s snide comments and menace-heavy threats, did he wish he could just draw his dagger and put an end to it? Is that enough to make him guilty? It feels strangely as though it might be. God, he wishes now that he had never borrowed money from Sebastiano in the first place – in fact he is astonished that, given his own debts and insecurities, Sebastiano ever agreed to lend him a single scudo .
Perhaps blood ties do matter after all.
‘What shall we be doing in Verona?’ Fabio says into his thoughts, and Marco looks up at his other, younger cousin, whose mouth has now curled into a cat-like smirk of anticipatory excitement. He swallows uncomfortably. Sebastiano might repeatedly have risked too much for his
‘ Oh my word, but I am truly a fool, ’ he says indistinctly, in between kisses. ‘ And you will never forgive me, will you? ’He wonders if Sofia will remember the lines.
‘ No, now that you mention it, I’m not sure that I shall. ’
She mutters the response, her words almost indistinguishable as her mouth is on his, and he cannot help smiling.
‘ Just one more chance? ’ he says, pulling back for a second and holding her gaze. ‘ One more very small… extremely insignificant… little chance? ’
She stares at him, her expression taut and serious, and Beppe holds his breath. Then her face dissolves into a wide smile and her eyes are sparkling with tears. ‘ Very well. Just one .’ A pause. ‘ One last .’
They carry on kissing as the final prolonged burst of applause from the crowd fills the air. They fail to stop even as the actors burst through the hanging and jostle down the ladder, stumbling over them, apologizing; one or two of them laugh and clap at the sight of the two oblivious lovers, while another offers a decidedly lewd suggestion as to what they should best do next and where.
38
‘What did you say he called me?’
‘An underage bardassa with the morals of a tomcat , I think it was,’ Marco says, shaking his head, fiddling a shred of dry skin on his lip between his teeth. The tavern table in front of him is stained with ale and pitted with worm holes, and the tallow candle stub, stuck straight onto the wood, is giving out little more than a fitful, flickering, sheep-smelling glow.
Fabio da Correggio raises an eyebrow. Blowing out his cheeks and letting the air puff out of his mouth, he says, ‘How bloody rude.’ Then, grinning, he adds, ‘Though I suppose he wasn’t that far wrong, really, was he? Bastard.’ The grin fades. ‘God, though, I’d never have wanted that sort of an end for him. He was our cousin. Terrible. And they haven’t caught whoever did it?’
Marco’s heart flips over as he looks at his cousin: slight, smooth-cheeked, as fine-featured as many of the women of his acquaintance, as gaudily dressed as any of the performers at that last play. He decides to tell him the truth. ‘No. They haven’t. And you and I are getting off up to Verona fast, before they have time to think of accusing me .’
Fabio grins at him. ‘You didn ’ t do it, did you?’
‘No I bloody didn’t!’ His voice comes out higher-pitched than he meant. There have been so many moments, since he sat in that room at Franceschina with Sebastiano’s body, staring at the seeping stain on the pillow around his cousin’s head, when he has anxiously wondered if he might have done. Done it and somehow forgotten. Though he knows he could never have lifted the candlestick and… and brought it down onto the back of Sebastiano’s head like that, every time he has heard people speculating about the possible identity of the killer over the past few days he has felt heat rising in his face, and has dreaded an unstoppable rush of colour proclaiming a guilt he knows he does not possess. Or hopes he does not possess. Because how many times had he in fact wished his cousin dead? On how many occasions, facing yet more of Sebastiano’s snide comments and menace-heavy threats, did he wish he could just draw his dagger and put an end to it? Is that enough to make him guilty? It feels strangely as though it might be. God, he wishes now that he had never borrowed money from Sebastiano in the first place – in fact he is astonished that, given his own debts and insecurities, Sebastiano ever agreed to lend him a single scudo .
Perhaps blood ties do matter after all.
‘What shall we be doing in Verona?’ Fabio says into his thoughts, and Marco looks up at his other, younger cousin, whose mouth has now curled into a cat-like smirk of anticipatory excitement. He swallows uncomfortably. Sebastiano might repeatedly have risked too much for his
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