Everything was beginning to happen. Tenbarbarescosor official grooms, in the brilliant costumes of their contradas, were taking their places before a raised platform. Ten trumpeters were mounting the steps, lining up at the front edge, ready to blow on their silver trumpets. The Mayor and the captains were seating themselves at a long table.
The stage was set. Two tall urns were already placed far apart on the table. Within their opaque beauty they held the fate of the drawing—in one the names of the contradas, in the other the numbers of the horses. And against the Palace wall two racks were hung, where everyone could plainly see them; they were empty, waiting for the matched names and numbers.
Seemingly the whole town was on hand, each person tense, each praying that his contrada would draw the best horse. Already the ten were rated ... this one for speed, that one for endurance. Giorgio listened to what people were saying.
"Ah, Belfiore is a veteran of many Palios. She knows those sharp curves like the corners of her stall!"
"Oh, ho! Do not overlook Ravi, the little black gelding."
"If Bruco, the Caterpillar, does not draw a good horse," said a man with a cracked voice, "I will go to the country."
"Then go!" The jeers were ribald. "In thirty years your Bruco does not win the Palio."
"Si, si," taunted a gleeful young voice. "Bruco wears the grandmother's cap." And everyone took up the singing cry: "Bruco wears the grandmother's cap! Bruco wears the grandmother's cap!"
It was stilled only by the trumpeters blasting forth on their silver horns. Then a hushed silence as two small pages stepped forward to the center of the stage. In military precision they turned smartly on their heels. One marched to the urn at the right end of the table, and the other to the urn at the left. While everyone watched, breathless, they took from each urn a wooden capsule and with a deep bow presented it to the Mayor.
The Mayor's hands shook violently as he opened the first capsule, unrolled a white slip of paper, and held it high for the crowd to see.
"Number six!" Every voice roared as one voice.
Quick as a wink, a man scrambled up a ladder and slid a number 6 into the top space of one rack.
Giorgio glanced into the corral nearby, where the mare Belfiore wore a number 6 beneath her ear.
The crowd went wild. "Give us Belfiore!" they cried. "Give us Belfiore!"
Then silence clamped down as the Mayor opened the second capsule and held up the paper. Those nearby read it, and almost before their lips formed the name, the man on the ladder slid the board marked "Porcupine" into the rack beside number six.
The Porcupines were beside themselves with joy. "Already we have won!" they shouted.
Giorgio felt a tightening of his chest. He began to know fear. Why had he been so sure the Nicchio would draw Farfalla? With each capsule opened, fresh beads of sweat rolled down his back. He could feel his shirt cling damply to him. He listened to the pairing in an agony of suspense.
"Ravi to the Caterpillar."
"Mitzi to the Goose."
"Saró non saró to the Tower."
"Anita to the Panther."
"Goia to the Snail."
"Lirio to the Wave."
"Tarantella to the Turtle."
"Fontegiusta to the Unicorn."
Only two contradas left; only two horses left! And now the last spaces in the racks filling in, irrevocably:
"Farfalla to the Forest."
"Turbolento to Nicchio, the Shell."
Giorgio was too stunned to move. In minutes, the Goddess Fortuna had knocked down his hopes as if they were toy blocks. He watched the members of the Forest lead Farfalla away to their stable. And he let the people of the Shell push him along with them to surround the dark bay, Turbolento. He was glad for the jostling crowd, and the deafening noise—the happy shrieks, and the wails of the disappointed ones. He wanted to wail, too, but Captain de Santi had turned to him, his face alight with joy. Above the din he introduced four strapping young men.
"Your bodyguard," he shouted. "They will protect you from harm, and us from interference. Wherever you go, from one dawn to the next, they will be with you."
There was a look so desolate on the boy's face that the Captain gripped his shoulder. "Have you nothing to say? Nothing at all? Are you not happy?"
Numb, drenched in misery, Giorgio heard his long-rehearsed speech come out at last: "Capitano, I am honored deeply to ride for your contrada."
In spite of his disappointment, Giorgio's spirits began to rise with each passing hour. Even if he could not ride Farfalla in the Palio, he was no longer an outcast. He was a participant! And for a week at least he would be free of the weasel of a groom with his sly grin and razor tongue.
That same day of the drawing, and for three successive days, the rehearsal races were held. They were calledProvas, but Giorgio failed to see that they proved anything.
In the first one he was eager to make a good showing for the Shell, and he lifted Turbolento up over the starting rope before it actually touched the track. In fact, he was well in the lead when he noticed that none of the other fantinos were urging their mounts. They made a great to-do with flapping elbows and wild yelling, but anyone could see they were intent on concealing their mounts' true ability.
Giorgio followed their cue. Besides, after the first spurt, he sensed that he might have trouble with Turbolento. Although not new to racing, the horse was accustomed to the tracks in the provinces. The races there were run counterclockwise, while here in the Piazza del Campo the running went clockwise. It would take patient control of Turbolento's speed and of his leads to prevent his switching at the turns. Before Giorgio had gone once around the Piazza, he understood the real purpose of the Prova. Horses and riders had to get acquainted three ways—with each other, with the dangerous slopes and curves, and with the opposite way of running. No wonder the rehearsal races were neither battle nor competition!
During the days of the Provas, Giorgio felt as if he had the all-seeing eyes of a horse. Besides watching Turbolento's every move, he managed to see what was happening to Farfalla, whether she was ahead of him or behind. Her fantino, Ivan-the-Terrible, went around the curves flapping his wings like a bird. Twice he flew off into space. Luckily, Farfalla was not hurt by entangling reins or bumps from other horses. Giorgio remembered later that he had noticed Ivan was unhurt only after he had made sure about Farfalla!
"Which horse is it you ride?" an elderly man of the Forest whispered to Giorgio after the third Prova. "Is it your Turbolento, or is it our Farfalla?" And he winked and nudged him in the ribs as if he wished the boy could be their fantino.
Quickly Giorgio's bodyguards closed in, wondering if the man were making some secret offer. But they might have saved themselves the trouble, for neither Turbolento nor Giorgio was considered strong enough to win—or to help anyone else to win.
Despite his watchfulness, Giorgio failed to see the crippling accident that happened to Farfalla in the last Prova on the very morning of the Palio. Between the curves of San Martino and the Casato, the horses of the Panther and the Unicorn were having a private race of their own. As Farfalla tried to pass, a hoof lashed out and hit her a sharp blow, almost severing the cartilage of her left hind foot. Ivan-the-Terrible managed to stay on, and let her finish the race limping heavily.
Moments later Giorgio passed her in a narrow lane as she was being led back to her stable. He turned to look at her bleeding heel. "The devil pursues her!" he said to his guards. Then his eyes blazed with a sudden thought. "They won't race her; theycan'trace her this afternoon in the Palio!" he cried out.
"But they got to!" the young men answered in chorus, and they turned on him in a torrent of explanation.
"It is a law from year seventeen hundred," the Number One guard said. "If an animal is lamed or dies in a Prova, it is not permitted to replace him."
Another guard broke in excitedly. "Why, I myself saw one killed in a Prova, and the contrada remained horseless."
"I too saw it!" the first one said. "And in the parade before the race the long black tail and the severed hoof of the dead one were carried on a platter of silver."
Now thoroughly roused, the guards were irrepressible. "And the flags of that contrada were tightly furled in mourning and even the strongest men wept like small children and cried aloud."
Giorgio felt his stomach turn over. Almost pleading, he looked from face to face. "But Farfalla is crippled! There could be a stumble, a fatal...."
"Then it will be her time to die," the Number One bodyguard said flatly. "She too is only mortal." There was no coldness in his voice. He was merely repeating words said to him long ago.
Giorgio tried to shut out thoughts of Farfalla. He made his mind go forward. He began counting. Three hours until the blessing of the horses in the churches of their contradas. Then the long historical parade, and at last, at sundown, the Palio!
He went with Turbolento into the stable of the Shell and watched the barbaresco go to work, sponging him off, making him comfortable and cool with especial attention to his head, eyes, and nostrils. Giorgio stood by as long as he could. Then from sheer habit he fell to his knees and hand-rubbed Turbolento's legs. Unconsciously he worked for a long time on the left hind, as if in some remote way he were helping Farfalla.
Giorgio usually had the mind of a camera. Events registered sharply with him. But that afternoon, during the long parade in which he wore the martial costume of the Middle Ages and rode a heavy warhorse, he felt himself an actor in a play, an actor who did not know his part. He was bewildered by the vast sea of faces in the center of the Piazza, and the kaleidoscope of color in costumes and flags, and the drums beating out a somber rhythm. Through it all he rode woodenly, like a toy soldier.
But with the explosion of the bomb announcing the race, he became all awareness again. With every fiber he heard the starter call out the horses in order.
"Number one, Caterpillar!"
"Number two, Shell!"
"Number three, Forest!" That was Farfalla. Ignoring her injury, she walked briskly to the starting rope. Giorgio reminded himself that of course the doctors had deadened her pain.
As the horses moved to their positions, Giorgio felt his breath coming fast. Turbolento and Farfalla were side by side. "Is it some omen," he asked himself, "that brings us together?"
The starter's voice blared on: "Number four, Tower.... Number five, Snail.... Number six, Wave.... Number seven, Panther.... Number eight, Goose.... Number nine, Turtle!"
Now nine horses in line—pawing, dancing, heads pulling to go. And nine fantinos with faces taut, reins taut, waiting for the number ten horse. Not until he is called to the rope can the race begin.
"Number ten, Unicorn!" the strident voice of the starter fills the Piazza.
Head lowered like a bull charging, the number ten horse gallops up, almost touches the rope. The starter springs it. It snakes free. Ten horses, as one, leap over it!
Giorgio's fingers tighten hard around the nerbo. If he takes the lead, he will not need it. He arrows Turbolento out in front, sets the pace.
Forty thousand throats cry "Forza! Forza!" as the bunched leaders pass the Fonte Gaia, pass the Casino of the Nobles, pass the scaffold where the judges sit. Now they are thundering toward the death curve of San Martino.
Behind him Giorgio hears the nerbos strike hollow against horseflesh and sharp against steel helmets, but he is still in the lead, free of the bludgeoning.
Out of the tail of his eye he sees the Wave, the Goose, the Panther fighting it out, and behind them Ivan-the-Terrible trying to drive Farfalla through. In the split second of his looking, a fantino catapults into the air like a rag doll shot from a cannon. It must be Ivan! ItisIvan! Farfalla is staggering on by herself. All this Giorgio senses rather than sees. He is at the curve now. Turbolento is leaning at a crazy angle; he seems to be tiring, faltering.
From every balcony and window, from all over the Piazza, the people of the Shell are shouting to Giorgio: "The nerbo! The nerbo! Use the nerbo on him!"
Giorgio feels icy terror. Turbolento is trying to wheel, to run the wrong way of the track. His left foreleg crosses his right. It is rooted! The pack is passing him! From both sides nerbos are raining blows on him, on Giorgio, beating them out of the way.
Giorgio lifts the horse's head, tries to get the weight on his hocks, but it is too late! Turbolento freezes, then buckles. His scream joins the shrieks of the crowd as he somersaults and slides across the track. Giorgio is pitched into the air, and hits with a thud on his back.
Hoofs go thundering past while he lies writhing, gasping, the wind knocked out of his body. As in a trance he sees the white-coated veterinarian rush out on the track. He hears the crack of the bullet that ends Turbolento's life, and sees the limping form of Farfalla come within an arm's length of the smoking pistol.
His heart beats thickly. He is suddenly afraid. A soundless prayer escapes his lips.
"Not her, too! O Holy Mother, not her! Not her!"
He was still gulping for air, but he had to move before the horses came around again. He felt a pair of strong hands grasping his upper arms, helping to lift him.
Feeling less hurt than humiliated, he pulled away. It was not his body that needed help. He made his knees bend one at a time, and he pushed himself up. And he got to his feet under his own power and as the horses whirled past, he went tottering alongside, clinging to the upright mattresses that lined the curve.
With his sleeve he wiped the sweat and a streak of blood from his face and he sucked air enough to walk head up. But the pain of remembered sounds and sights bore down on him—the sharp crack of the bullet, the instantaneous thud, the dribble of crimson, the crazed scream cut short. Then the whole world was a spinning blackness. What had happened afterward?
All about him a solid pack of humanity was streaming onto the track. The race was over! Voices came at him like cross winds, some shouting "Bravo!" and some crying in strange foreign tongues. He was sucked along with the crowd, stumbling, shuffling, pulled into their meshes like a fish into a net. Over and above the shouting came wild, deafening cheers, beating out the syllables:
"Tar-tu-ca!"
"Tar-tu-ca!"
And so he knew that the Contrada of the Turtle had won. And he yelled, too, but he did not know what he yelled. He had to yell to keep from fainting, to keep from crying.
Two of his bodyguards got through the crowd to him, linked their arms in his, supporting him, buoying him along, questioning in his ear.
"How do you feel?"
"You all right?"
His head nodded "yes" but all of him felt numbed, disgraced. And his legs trembled as if at any moment they might splay and split apart. Through the shouting and joyful singing, he could hear remembered voices mocking:
"Hey, you runt of Monticello!"
"You, with the slough of the Maremma all over you!"
"Girl's hands ... girl's hands ... girl's hands...."
The words jumbled in his dizziness, and he staggered along, feeling himself littler and weaker than ever, like some fragile moth battering its wings against the walls of the centuries. He knew now what the Umbrella Man meant. The Palio was indestructible. Men could beat their fists against it. Horses and fantinos could die for it, but it would remain forever the supreme challenge.
He wanted to be alone in his agony. His guards understood, and let him go. As he went zigzagging through the crowd, he pressed his palms hard against his ears, trying to shut out the singing, and the drums beating, and the inner voices accusing. At last he stood panting before the door of Turbolento's stable.
He rang the bell, summoning the barbaresco. He knocked. No one came.
A couple walked by, arm in arm, unmindful of him. He might have been a cat scratching to be let in. He tried the latch. The door was open! He lurched into the dark emptiness. The barbaresco was not there. No one was on guard. No one was needed. He closed the door behind him, and his shaking hands locked it. The light from a street candle came in the high barred window, threw a splash of yellow on the strawed bed of Turbolento. It was freshly made, awaiting a possible victor.
Alone in the stable, with only the faraway sounds of rejoicing, Giorgio fell face down in the straw. "Mammina! Mammina!" he sobbed, and the tears so long inheld were unloosed. As he cried himself out, the sea of taunting faces melted away, and in their stead his mother's face appeared, trying to soothe him, to comfort him. "Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio," she called.
The next day millions of people were reading newspaper accounts of the Palio. Sports writers from Rome, from Florence, from Milan called it "The Race of the Broken Heart." They referred not to the death of Turbolento. That was gallant. For a horse to be killed on the field, like a soldier in battle, was beautiful. But the injury to Farfalla's leg, they said, was not only painful to her and perilous to all, but to watch her hobbling three times around the course to the very end was heartbreaking. Better she, too, had been killed.
Thus, in a few paragraphs, the race passed into history. For weeks, however, the fate of Farfalla was tossed about like a frail boat in a storm. One doctor gave her an even chance of going sound again. Another spoke frankly to her owner as father to son.
"Celli," he said, "you are a man most benevolent, but that poor mare is suffering, and time will not lessen her pain." He shook his head in sympathy. "I suggest you put her down, and the sooner it is done, the better."
Unwilling to be convinced, Doctor Celli called in a third veterinarian, a gnomelike creature with a short clipped mustache and a short clipped way of speaking. After examining Farfalla, who was biting at her manger, he made his pronouncement: "This Palio will be her last. I would at once put an end to her sufferings. What pleasure in this life does she have?"
For hours after the veterinarian had gone, Doctor Celli paced to and fro in the room where he kept his guns and hunting trophies. It was difficult to listen to one's heart and mind at the same time. As a banker he was a careful man, reasoning always with his pocketbook. A sick horse was a luxury he could ill afford. If the best doctors were ready to sign her death warrant, who was he to say, "No, this I will not do!" Yet he could not help wavering.
Perhaps, he mused, someone else would have more time to give her, more time to look in on her during the day instead of only at sunup and sundown. Would Signor Busisi know of someone? A talk with the old and wise man might be of help.
Feeling somewhat lifted in his heart, Doctor Celli went to his garage, backed out his car, and sped toward Siena. He would lay the facts in the palm of his friend and ask for a plain answer.
Within the half hour the door to the house of Busisi was opening wide and the sad, kindly face of the Signore was smiling in welcome.
"Buona sera, Celli. Come in! Come in!" The old man led the way to the dining table and pulled out a chair. "Enjoy with me the simple pleasure of food and drink. I am alone. My wife has gone to the church. Let us eat first. Then we talk of Farfalla."
There was a bottle of good red wine on the table and a nice assortment of cheeses. Signor Busisi fixed a plate of them for his guest. Without any heart for it, Doctor Celli took a small bite of the gorgonzola.
The old man remonstrated. "Celli, can you only nibble like the mouse? Eat with gusto!"
"If I eat now, Signore, the food sits heavy in my stomach. I want only to talk." He pushed his plate aside. "Already I have summoned three veterinarians for Farfalla."
"And their verdict?"
"Two advise putting her down. At once."
"You have decided?"
"No. My thoughts seesaw—first one way, then the other. You observed her in the Palio, Signore. What would you say if she were now fretting in your stable instead of in mine?"
Signor Busisi's face was grave, deeply concerned. He made a steeple of his fingertips and looked under them as if he hunted there for the answer. "Mortals are quick to destroy," he said at last. Already he was ill of a heart condition, and being on the edge of death himself seemed to give him a wisdom beyond the common man. "It takes eleven months and five days for a horse to be born into this world," he said with a faraway look. "Why do we not give the mare the same number of months and days before we sentence her to die? Perhaps in that time she will prove her destiny."
There was a long silence between them. The old man got up, paced the room thoughtfully, then stood before the window. A blood-red sun was sinking behind the city wall. With his back to Doctor Celli he said, "You are not the first to come to me today concerning the fate of Farfalla."
"So? Who else?"
"The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards. You know him?"
"Si, si. The Chief is a man most compassionate. I once saw him on a cold, bitter day restore the fallen blanket to an old bony horse."
"But the Chief came only as agent."
"Agent?"
Signor Busisi nodded.
"Agent for whom?"
"For two tradesmen from Seggiano."
"But what couldtheywant with Farfalla?"
"In their hands she would certainly come to a pitiful end. But...." Signor Busisi came back to the table; he seemed quite out of breath.
"But what?"
"I detected something in the face of the Chief," the Signore went on. "At first it was only a flicker, then it burst into flame, bright as the morning sun. You see, he had been charged to buy Farfalla, but suddenly the truth struck him. He did not want to forward the mare to Seggiano. He wanted to keep her for himself."
Doctor Celli sat on the very edge of his chair. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him what I once told you."
"You mean about life being a puzzle with odd-shaped pieces?"
The old man threw back his head and laughed. "My boy, you have a remarkable memory. And I told him also what sweet frenzy it would be for him in next year's Palio to watch two horses—his own and that of his contrada."
Doctor Celli smiled. In the hands of the Chief, Farfalla would be treated well. She might live to race again. She might even....
Signor Busisi broke into his reverie. "I must tell you," he said, "the Chief's money at present is low, but he is soon expecting payment on an old transaction, and my advice, Celli, is for you to wait until he comes to you, ready to buy. Remember this, my friend, a gift horse seldom is prized."
"I will wait! Gladly! Farfalla meanwhile can rest at my country place, and my tenant farmer will see to her needs." With a deep sigh of relief he stood up and raised his glass in a toast. "May the pieces fit again!"
Already the heaviness was lifted from his heart.
The second Palio of 1953 was bloodless, but again it fell short of Giorgio's dreams. Not until the last moment did any contrada ask him to ride. Then on a cold-blooded horse he raced for the Panthers. A flashy bay won for the Forest, but of course Farfalla was not there. Things might have been different, he thought, if he had had the right mount. He wondered what had become of her, if she would ever race again.
On a morning soon afterward, Giorgio set out quite early for the weekly market held in the Piazza del Campo. He was leaving for Monticello that selfsame day, but first he had a purchase to make. He planned to walk all the way home to save for his mother the few lire he had left from his year in Siena. And since it was the season of the rains, he would need either a raincoat or an umbrella. A raincoat would make him look more like a successful fantino, but it would cost 5,000 lire, and for that sum he could buy four umbrellas! Besides, he had ruined his only satchel with blistering liniments and blue gentian for his horses, and he would need a carryall for his clothes. By rolling them into small, bread-size bundles he could pack them between the ribs of an umbrella. And so, for one price, he would have a traveling bag and a canopy against the rain.
As he trudged the steep hill of Via Fontebranda, he felt cross-arrows of sadness and gladness. The sadness was for his performance in the Palios. Two contradas had believed in him and he had failed them, miserably. He had failed his family, and himself, too. Even Signor Ramalli needed him no more; he was selling his horses and would not start up his stable again until spring, if then.
So now, defeated and discouraged, Giorgio was going back home where he belonged. That was the wonderful thing about Home. It waited patiently for you to come back, hero or failure. In his mind's eye he was already there, his mother singing as she whisked an egg for their soup; his father contentedly blowing smoke rings; the children poking their fingers through them. And pervading the whole house was the comforting, all-is-well feeling, as if downy wings were spread wide and all who came within were safe.
He was deep in these thoughts as he joined the procession of men with their baskets and women with their market bags. He decided not to make his purchase right away, but to move through the crowd, enjoying the sights and sounds. He had to laugh at a bearded old man in an ankle-length coat who picked up a lady's mirror and a goose quill from a counter of trinkets and trifles. Unmindful of anyone else, he studied his long yellow teeth in the mirror, picked them clean with the goose quill, and tossed both articles back on the table. Enraged, the man behind the counter promptly smashed the mirror on the cobblestones. "You miser! You horse's teeth!" he called out. "For you this means worst luck."
Giorgio walked on, still laughing. Life was fun, after all. He stopped at another stand, fascinated by a hawker of handkerchiefs. The man was wrapping one after another about his fist until the bundle grew big as a pumpkin. He kept his audience in an uproar as he wound and wound the white squares. "Peoples!" he shouted. "A thousand uses they have! To clean the rifle. To strain the jelly. To substitute for the diaper. To blow the nose, even great one like Pinocchio's. Now, who wants whole bundle for only two hundred lire. Who wants?"
Hands went up in coveys, like birds flushed from a hedgerow. And the money poured in. Giorgio could not help wondering if men like this—men who could make so much money and who could make people laugh, too—did they have worries inside them?
He went on, through the maze of hardware and pink petticoats and flower stalls, and the stalls with bright-colored fish and tiny talking birds. He bought two fish to give to Anna, and a new belt for himself. At last he came to the umbrellas. Under a bright purple awning they were hanging down like a stumpy green fringe.
The man selling them was bent double, counting shiny lire from his pocket into a copper pitcher on the ground. All Giorgio could see of him was the bright green patch on the seat of his trousers. It was the same green as the umbrellas!
When the man stopped a moment in his counting to peer around for customers, Giorgio nearly dropped his fish.
"Uncle Marco!" he shouted. "Uncle Marco!"
With a clanking jangle the remaining money fell into the pitcher uncounted. The man spun around, at the same time pushing back his feathered hat and squinting his eyes to make sure. Then he leaped over the pitcher, grabbed Giorgio by the shoulders, and bellowed for all the world to hear. "Giorgio! Giorgio Terni!" Fiercely, fondly, he embraced the boy, kissing him man-fashion, first on one cheek, then the other.
A little crowd began gathering and Uncle Marco smiled beatifically at the ready-made audience. "Signori!" he announced, "I wouldn't believe mine eyes. Behold the little runt from Monticello!" He spoke with reverence, with ecstasy. There were tears in his eyes.
"This brave young fantino," he explained, "is more Sienese than the Sienese! Some day he will conquer curve of San Martino. You listen to your Umbrella Man! This boy will be a fantinoformidabile! The Palio ... he will win it!"
Red-faced, Giorgio pulled at Uncle Marco's sleeve. "Please, Uncle, please! I come to buy the umbrella. An oiled-cloth one, because they are cheaper. You see," he stammered, "today I go home to Monticello."
Uncle Marco slapped his thigh and laughed until the tears streaked down the furrows of his cheeks.
Giorgio grew angry. Was this a time to laugh? Had the Umbrella Man gone daft?
"Ah, the sadness so sweet! So joyous!" he sighed, making no sense whatsoever. A few bystanders nodded, as if they knew a sweet sadness too. One woman began sobbing softly.
Giorgio tried to back away, but Uncle Marco lifted him bodily off his feet, giving him a bear hug, almost crushing him in happy excitement.
"Put medown! Put medown! You spill my fish!"
Uncle Marco set him down as if he were a child. "You listen to me," he said. "I foresee...." He let the sentence dangle teasingly in midair. Then to heighten the suspense he whispered in a stage voice directly into Giorgio's ear. But first he examined the ear, marveling at its smallness. "I foresee," he said prophetically, "to Monticello you do not go."
"Oh, but I do! This very morning I go."
"Ho, ho! Listen to him! So little faith has he." Putting his arm around Giorgio, he faced the audience, sighing deep, as if he could hold the suspense no longer. "Someone," he pronounced, "someonemulto importantewishes Giorgio to see. No less than the Chief-of-the-Town-Guards! Himself, the Chief!"
The crowd was enjoying the show, old men clicking their teeth, little boys nudging one another in envy.
"He wishes to seeme?" Giorgio asked in disbelief.
"Si, si. He tries everywhere to find Giorgio Terni. First he goes to the Ramallis'; you not there. They say to him: 'Giorgio, he went to market to buy the raincoat, or maybe the umbrella.' So the Chief comes at once to me.
"'Where is Giorgio Terni?' he asks. 'You have seen him, yes?' 'No, no,' I have to say. 'Him I have not seen in long, long time.' He says, 'Giorgio will come.' 'For certain?' I ask. 'For certain,' he says."
Uncle Marco licked his lips and beamed, first upon Giorgio and then upon the audience. "So now everything is arranged. You, Giorgio Terni, must come here to Il Campo tonight at the hour of ten." He pointed across the Piazza. "Over there at the street café by the Fonte Gaia will be the Chief. He will await you. So now the umbrella you do not need. Instead...."
He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a slender red horn made from sea coral. It shone brightly in his calloused hand. "Anciently," he said, crinkling his eyes until they were slits, "Roman gladiators carry this horn for best luck."
He doffed his hat and bowed as if he were conferring a knighthood. "I make a present to you, Giorgio." He held it dangling on its string before the boy, who returned bow for bow but made no comment. He could see Uncle Marco had more to say.
"And for extra good luck, here is also a small rabbit's foot. An American lady give it me for a favor. Now I give to you." He pressed both into Giorgio's hands and smiled exultantly.
Ten o'clock seemed years away. To hurry the time, Giorgio went to the public bath and gave himself a good scrubbing. He worked hard on the labyrinthian creases in his ears. Perhaps Uncle Marco had examined them for a reason.
At supper back at the Ramallis' home he ate his macaroni in a trance, almost forgetting to say "Buon appetito" beforehand. There was chocolate and strawberry ice cream for dessert, served in special honor of his departure. Absentmindedly, he mashed and melted the two colors together, toying rather than tasting.
"Is something wrong with the ice cream?" Signora Ramalli asked in concern.
For answer Giorgio quickly shoved a spoonful into his mouth. How could he explain his excitement when perhaps it would amount to nothing at all?
After supper Anna wheedled him into a game of dominoes, but his eye was on the clock more than on the counters. When at last it was time to go, he grabbed his jacket and tore down the stairs and out into the street. He ran swiftly at first; then as the lane twisted and steepened, he had to slow to a walk. Someone had forgotten to take a parrot inside. The cage hung on a balcony and its occupant screamed and scolded Giorgio as if he were to blame.
On ordinary evenings he would have talked back, but tonight nothing could delay him. He did not even peer into the cobbler's shop for memory's sake, nor into the public laundry. Nor did he stop to look through the gates to the great houses.
Tonight he flew by his landmarks as he climbed the Via Fontebranda, crossed the busy Via di Città and came out at last into the fairyland of Il Campo. He caught his breath at the contrast from the morning market. The jumbled confusion of flapping blankets and spreads and the splashing colors of fruits and vegetables, and the hawkers screaming—all this was gone. The Piazza was a shell of emptiness. High up in the palace windows the winking lights seemed faraway planets, but in the circle of shops below they burned steady and close together like a necklace of fire opals.
The night was softly warm. A score of small round tables had been set out in front of the café near the Fonte Gaia. Most of them were occupied. Giorgio thought he recognized some of the people from Uncle Marco's audience. He stood facing across the vast square to the canyon of the street where the Chief lived. It was black as a mousehole. Like a cat, Giorgio watched it, never taking his eyes away. It was magic how the Chief came, as if the very looking had pulled him out of the darkness. At first he was only a tall block of white. Then gradually the block developed two legs, and with lithe grace they were advancing across the square, directly toward Giorgio.
When the two met, the Chief purposely stood on the down-slope so that he and Giorgio were more nearly the same height. Then he glanced up at the Mangia Tower. The lone hand on the clock pointed almost to the hour. He smiled in approval.
"We meet early, no?"
Giorgio nodded, too breathless to speak.
"Come, my boy," the Chief said. "See that little table apart from the others? There the long-eared folk won't hear us."
A waiter arrived at the table simultaneously. "Buona sera," he bowed. Then he wiped the chair where the Chief would sit, and gave the table a thorough cleaning. "Now then." He arched his eyebrows, awaiting the order. "Would you like a chocolate? An ice cream? Or a coffee, perhaps?"
"What will you have, Giorgio?" the Chief inquired.
"I will take a coffee, if you please."
"We will each take the same, waiter."
There was no talk at all before the coffees arrived. Somewhere from the heights of a palace window came a string of staccato notes, clear and strong. It was flute music, the "March of the Palio."
Giorgio wiped the anxious moisture from his palms. A distant church bell chimed the hour. The time had come! And with it the two steaming cups.
"Sugar?" The waiter held the bowl first for the Chief, then set it down in front of Giorgio. Two spoonfuls went into each tiny cup, and both the man and the boy stirred vigorously, as if they had no other thought on their minds. In unison, too, they sipped the sweet bitterness.
At last the Chief looked directly at Giorgio. "Well, boy? Did you go today to the Street Market?"
"Si, si."
"Did you buy the umbrella?"
"No, Signore." Giorgio hesitated. "You see, Uncle Marco is my very good friend. He said the umbrella now is not needed. Instead, he gave me, for luck, a coral horn and a rabbit's foot."
A smile crossed the Chief's lips. "I will start from the first." He set down his cup. "Now then! Two tradesmen from Seggiano have engaged me to purchase for them the mare, Farfalla."
Giorgio drew in a quick breath. Why did the very mention of her name give him a shock?
"They have commissioned me," the Chief went on, "to make the purchase from Doctor Celli and to forward the mare to Seggiano."
"But why? Is it for the racing?"
The Chief shook his head sadly. "I prefer not to think of her fate. Those men are traders in all manner of beasts."
"Could you ..." Giorgio's mind darted ahead. He grew startled at his own daring. "Please, Signore, could you not buy the mare yourself?"
For a moment there was stony silence. Then in a voice cold and stern, the Chief asked, "Who told you to say this? Signor Busisi? Doctor Celli?"
"Oh no, Signore."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certain."
The big man relaxed, and his face broke into a pleased grin. "Good! A boy who can read a man's mind can also read a horse's." Then he leaned forward, punctuating his words with excited gestures. "Already have I gone to Signor Busisi. I tell him I am commissioned to buy the mare, but in my heart I hide the secret hope of keeping her."
Giorgio barely managed to get the next words out. "Is all settled?"
"No, no. Nothing is settled! With her what would I do? Where would I keep her? Who would exercise her? I have nobody to do this. Besides, she has the nervous malady."
Giorgio's mouth went dry. He could not speak. He took a gulp of coffee, but still no words came.
The Chief was using both hands now, his words ringing sharp and clear. "In spite that she did not reach expectation, in spite that she is tortured by the bad leg and the nervous tic, the daughter of Sans Souci deserves better than to be put down."
Suddenly the boy found his voice. "Oh, I believe it, too! I believe!"
"The money to buy her—that I now have."
Giorgio's heart raced. He thought he had the answer. He knew it was the answer. "I ...Iwill train her!" he gasped.
There was no reply. Only the flute piping in the palace window.
Giorgio leaped to his feet, almost upsetting his chair. "Do not worry about the stable," he said. "In the Maremma I can winter her. Babbo has a very nice barn. Nobody lives there, nobody but little Pippa, our donkey."
Still no reply.
Giorgio persisted. "Signore! I myself can ride her to Monticello. At once!"
The Chief pursed his lips, thinking. There was worry in his face as he mulled over the proposal. He had asked expressly for this meeting, had hoped earnestly that Giorgio would have the same desire to rescue the mare. But now he was appalled by the depth of the boy's emotion. He studied the slight figure, the young face so full of eager determination. What if the mare were beyond help? Was the boy's faith too high a price to pay? What would happen to him if he failed?
Their eyes met and held. Giorgio put out his hand and suddenly the Chief reached across the table and took it in a clasp so strong it seemed as if some unseen force were bringing them together. For a moment they both fell silent, tasting their dreams. Giorgio was living his day of triumph. He saw the Palio square alive with people, and heard voices crying the names of their contradas, but mostly they were screaming to a white mare, winging her in.
Still handfast, the Chief cried, "Forza! Forza!"
The waiter came running. "You call me?"
"No, no," the Chief laughed heartily. "We are in the Palio."
The waiter nodded in complete understanding. There was nothing surprising in this.
"Giorgio!" The Chief spoke now in whispered confidence. "No wonder Farfalla fails. Who wants 'butterfly' for horse? We change her name! I am a man very earthy. For me,Gaudenziais the name I favor. It is strong like marching music. Gau-den-zia," he repeated softly, lingering over each syllable. "Joy-of-living.You like?"
"I like!"
The Chief squared his shoulders. "From this very moment," he said, "the destiny of the mare changes. She will get a new name, a new life!"
"Gau-den-zia, Gaudenzia." Slowly Giorgio tested it on his tongue. The happiness was almost beyond bearing.
"That Uncle Marco," chuckled the Chief, "did he not save you the price of the umbrella? Who could hold the umbrella on horseback? It is only for sultan of the desert, not for warrior of the Palio!" He threw back his head, laughing as light-heartedly as a boy, and the flutter of notes from the palace window echoed their happiness.