‘But people love your shows.’
‘That is the trouble.’ He grimaced. ‘The Commedia has grown too popular. Certain cardinals decided to take an interest. They have concluded that we are corrupting the common people.’ He threw his hands up. ‘Why – because we show human nature in all its naked folly? Because we acknowledge that people shit and fart and fuck as well as pray – yes, even priests and bishops? Because we are not afraid to say cock and cunt on stage, because these things are not offensive, and instead we say that what is truly offensive is hypocrisy and oppression? Tell me – is that corrupting the people? Is it not more corrupt to deny them a few moments of fun, or truth, or the chance to laugh at those who have puffed themselves up with power?’
His voice had grown in pitch and fervour; by the time he reached the end the rest of the room had fallen silent and the company burst into a spontaneous round of applause. Francesco looked gratified, gave a mock bow and waved them back to their duties.
‘I see why you’re on the wrong side of the cardinals,’ I said. He smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes that I recognised.
‘So.’ He swirled a peacock-blue cloak around his shoulders. ‘In Italy now they say that in every town, we must submit a script of our play to the censors before we can be granted a licence to perform.’
‘But your shows are extemporised.’
‘Exactly. So we say we have no script. Ah, then we are sorry, they say, we would like to oblige, but without a script, our hands are tied.’ He crossed his wrists and held them up as if bound. ‘And I will not drain the lifeblood from our work by committing it to paper and letting them take their pens to it – what would be left of us?’ He shook his head. ‘But we are lucky – while it pleases King Henri to continue his patronage, we find enough work in Paris.’ He flexed and clenched his fist a couple of times, then picked up a pair of leather gloves. ‘We perform at the Hotel de Montpensier the day after tomorrow. A small, private entertainment, but exclusive, and they will feed us well.’
‘For the Duchess? You will have to mind your language there – I hear she is a most pious Catholic lady.’
‘Aren’t they always the ones who love a bit of filth?’ He made a crude thrust of his hips, grinning. ‘Though it is her stepson, the Duke, who has invited us. I believe his tastes are a little broader. But we shall test our material tonight. Performing for one of Catherine de Medici’s entertainments is not the same as playing an inn yard. They still want the dirty stuff, but we must dress it in fine words.’
‘What do you perform tonight?’
‘Two pieces,’ he said, stretching the gloves out finger by finger. ‘At different times. And I’m told that Catherine’s women will perform a masque of their own devising too. Heh.’ He nudged me with an elbow. ‘The Flying Squadron. We will have a hard time competing with that, I think. But at least we won’t have to make ourselves heard over the rustling of silk from all the gentlemen furtively frotting inside their breeches.’ He burst out laughing again and slapped me on the back, so that I almost stumbled into a slender young woman who had appeared unseen at my shoulder.
‘Ragazzi – stop your clowning and get dressed or we will be late, and you do not keep a king waiting.’ Isabella Canali interposed herself between us and slapped Francesco sharply on his backside with a sly smile at me. Francesco’s wife was the acknowledged star of the Gelosi; the one who had taken the docile character of the Inamorata and turned her into a mischievous, knowing and feisty young woman in her performances, which were risqué enough to make the censors sweat even more under their clerical collars. She was also an accomplished acrobat, turning her lithe body in cartwheels or backbends that provoked further shock; more radical still was the fact that she managed the company’s business with her husband as an equal partner. I tried to pretend I had not noticed that she was only wearing a thin linen shift. She leaned on my shoulder and whispered close to my ear. ‘Too busy dreaming about the Flying Squadron, eh? And you had better behave yourself,’ she added, turning to Francesco with a scolding finger. ‘I’ll be watching you. Keep your hands in plain sight.’ But her eyes were laughing as she said it.
‘What is this Flying Squadron?’ A tall young man with dark curls held back by a scarf turned to ask the room as he applied the white face of the clown Pedrolino, in a looking glass propped against a pile of books on Jacopo’s table. A low ripple of male laughter spread through his colleagues.
‘Poor Ercole,’ Isabella said, nodding to the young man. ‘He is new to us. He doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for. The Flying Squadron are Catherine de Medici’s secret weapon,’ she told him, sotto voce, with a wink at me. ‘They’re like the Sirens. We’ll have to tie you to the mast.’ The boy looked alarmed beneath his facepaint, but the others only chuckled and shook their heads, as if to say he would have to learn for himself. I said nothing. I had experienced the dangerous allure of the Flying Squadron before.
Isabella turned back to me and held up a black hooded robe. ‘Here, Bruno – I thought this for you? It would hide most of your face.’
‘An advantage, with a face like his,’ Francesco remarked, strapping on a belt.
Isabella gave him an affectionate cuff on the back of the head before helping me to fasten the robe with a pin. She passed me a three-quarter mask. ‘Try it.’
I took the mask
