Gaudenzia, Pride of the Palio Page 7

  And Giorgio leaned forward. “Why should I go?”

  “Because you’re a milksop; too sissy to fight!”

  This was the spark that touched it off. Giorgio leaped from his mount, tied him to a sapling, caught the man’s foot, swung him off Farfalla, and began punching with both fists.

  The wiry groom ducked the blows, tossed Giorgio into the dirt, and would have trampled him mercilessly had not Farfalla taken this moment to fly past, her heels narrowly scraping the man’s head. It was all the advantage Giorgio needed. He caught the groom off guard, sprang to his feet, and grasping the man’s arms, he pinned them tight to his sides. The groom lowered his head, butting it against Giorgio’s, and at the same time twisted his shoulders, trying to wrench free. But Giorgio held fast, his arms locked tight around the lean body.

  “Look!” the groom cried in mock alarm. “Farfalla escapes!”

  Giorgio turned. The two animals were quietly eating the leaves of the sapling. After one well-planted blow, he freed the man in great disgust. “Get on your horse!” he cried, and watched the bowed legs scuttle off to mount Farfalla.

  In this way the suspenseful days of July passed and the August Palio drew near. A week before, Imperiale developed a swelling on his left foreleg, had to be blistered, and was withdrawn from the race. But Dorina again passed the trials, and this time was assigned to the Contrada of the Porcupine. And again, no one from any contrada approached Giorgio to say, “Giorgio Terni, we earnestly desire you to be our fantino.” And he could not use the reply he had rehearsed awake and asleep: “Signore, I am honored deeply to ride in the Palio for your contrada.”

  When the day of August the sixteenth came and the bell in the Mangia Tower began tolling, Giorgio forgot he was man-grown. With all his clothes on, even his high-laced country boots, he went to bed like a child and pulled the covers up over his head. But still he could hear the bell, sonorous and deep; could see the pageant unfold in his mind, telling the beads of history. The solemn tolling went on and on. And when he could stand the reverberations no longer, they suddenly stopped. The dead quiet that followed was even harder to bear. It meant the race was on! Giorgio saw it in all its wild and glorious beauty, heard the onlookers cheering, then roaring loud and louder until the noise filled his room. Drenched in sweat, he burrowed deeper into the covers. He wished he could suffocate and die. Unless he could be part of the Palio, he would rather be dead.

  At last exhaustion took over and he fell into a jerking sleep. It was Signora Ramalli and Anna who wakened him, turning on the electric bulb. He flew out of bed, embarrassed to play the role of a sulky child.

  “Giorgio,” the Signora spoke in a mothering voice, “we come with the special things you like—macaroni and coffee for strength, and a good mocha torte to sweeten your bitterness.” She set the tray on his table and pulled out his chair. Then she and Anna sat down on the chest to watch him eat.

  Giorgio smiled his thanks. He picked up his fork and tried the macaroni, but it stuck in his throat. He tried the frosting of the torte, and to his relief it melted on his tongue.

  “Better you were not there,” Anna said. “Our Dorina was nearly last. Niduzza won for the Goose. But I thought a white mare, Farfalla, had won, so close were their heads.”

  Giorgio’s spirits lifted. The cart horse of Casalino had nearly won!

  “Babbo says the reason Dorina failed is not because there is weakness in her.”

  “Nor in her training,” Signor Ramalli added, coming into the room. He sat on the edge of Giorgio’s bed and sighed heavily. “By now you must know, son, that the agreements of the contradas beforehand play a vital role.”

  Giorgio put down his fork, listening.

  “It will be enough for me to say that even the most unseasoned horse could win. Take any of the losers. Take Farfalla. In today’s battle she may have been deliberately held back at the last moment. You must know,” he repeated with all the force he could summon, “that sometimes there are secret arrangements between the captains of the contradas. The fantino is given orders. He has to lose, even when his heart cries out to win. There is no choice.”

  Chapter XIII

  THE GODDESS FORTUNA

  Time in Siena is reckoned by the Palio. Trips, even important ones, are postponed until after a Palio, or made hurriedly before. In the family Bible, births and deaths are often recorded by it; this person was born on the eve of the Palio of July, 1939; that one died during the August Palio of 1880.

  Giorgio, too, began counting time by the Palio. In between, he felt himself in a vacuum. There seemed no real stuff and substance to living. He remembered an incident when he was a small boy. He was watching a veterinarian standing over a sick horse, and the man had said, “This beast I do not pronounce dead; it exists in a state of suspended animation.” Then with a long needle the doctor injected medicine into the horse’s heart, and it began to breathe, and to live again. The Palio was a stimulant, just like that. Even the hopes dashed and the despair were easier to endure than the dull ticking of time between.

  Signor Ramalli kept Giorgio on for the winter, but often on Sundays he was allowed to go to Monticello. At home one evening, with the cat purring on his shoulder and Emilio and Teria looking on, he started work on his statue of Farfalla. It was strange how he remembered everything about her, even to the length of her mane and tail. As he worked, he found himself putting a shapeless lump on her back. He pinched and pressed, adding clay here, taking it off there, until the lump began to take form.

  “What!” Emilio exclaimed, his eyes round in curiosity. “What are you making there! A fantino? Is it you?”

  Studying it, the mother said, “Why tear out your heart in an aching for the Palio? Some of us are meant to dress the table for the others to eat. They are blessed, too.”

  Giorgio managed a smile, but the longing for the Palio persisted. In the slow months that followed, he sometimes wished he had never listened to the Umbrella Man. But deep inside he knew he did not mean it; he was glad he had the next Palio to think of. The next one would be different. He would be in it, and the horse he rode would be an Arabian, almost white. And all the rest of his life the Palios would come, year after year, one wild race for glory after another.

  The next Palio was different indeed. The contest really began on the road where the weasely groom and Giorgio waged their continual warfare. Grimy and sweating, Giorgio was trying one day to teach a mare to lead with either her right foreleg or her left when going into a canter. Unless she could take a curve on the correct lead, her legs might cross and she could fall, endangering herself and everyone on the course.

  Farfalla, with her groom sitting smug and superior, was executing a series of perfect half-turns down the center of the road. Every time their paths crossed, the man sniped at Giorgio with a sharp insult. “Hey, you! To teach a donkey, is necessary the teacher is less donkey than the donkey. Ha! Ha!”

  Giorgio usually ignored the quips and jibes, but this one cut deep because it was overheard by two important-looking men beckoning him to the side of the road. One, a dignified man with balding head, introduced himself as Signor de Santi, an attorney, and captain of the Contrada Nicchio, the Shell.

  The other, towering and magnificent in his blue uniform, was Giorgio’s friend, the Chief-of-the-Guards. In an easy, knowing way the Chief took hold of the mare’s bridle and looked up at the boy’s dirt-streaked face. He smiled as if he had heard the taunt but ignored it. “Giorgio!” he exclaimed, “we come with a message for you.”

  He turned to the Captain, who now cleared his throat as if he were about to address a jury. “We of the Shell,” he intoned, “have sought a fantino raised in our own contrada, but,” he cleared his throat again, “such a one cannot be found. Here am I, therefore, wandering over the countryside, seeking.”

  Giorgio was struck dumb by the importance of the two men, and embarrassed by his own appearance. Hastily, he wiped his face on his sleeve and with his fingers combed his hair.

/>   The Captain boomed on. “Seeing you with your stained shirt and disordered hair makes me think of the words of Angelo Mentoni, who said, ‘In order to make a fantino for the Palio, three requisites are needed—age, liver, and misery.’ Age you have not; of your liver I know not; but misery you have—in a manner only too evident!”

  Giorgio blushed, then began to shake all over in anticipation. Trees went spinning before his eyes, the sky tilted, and the men’s faces swam before him as if they were under water. He knew that out of respect he should dismount, but in his dizzy excitement he might fall sprawling at their feet.

  “I am of the opinion,” the Captain continued, “that you are a boy of good future and will fight earnestly to win. Unfortunately, we are not a contrada of great wealth. However, in the event of victory you will be rewarded in proportion to our limited means.” He coughed apologetically. “You must realize, boy, that on our part this is a dangerous risk. Your . . . ah . . . smallness, while an advantage when riding in the provincial races, is no advantage at all on a cobblestone course where riders sit bareback.”

  Giorgio wanted to shout: “Capitano! Chief-of-the-Guards! I will take the risk. I will ride for no pay at all! I will pay you if I can! I will save my fare to Monticello!” Then suddenly came the remembrance of home—of the sausage hanging from the ceiling and the pieces of bread rubbed against it for flavor, and he gulped. He tried to say, “Signor de Santi, I am honored deeply to ride in the Palio for your contrada,” but the words stuck in his throat.

  The Captain took the silence for consent. “Good!” he said, “you shall be the fantino of the Shell for the Palio of July the second. You shall present yourself at my study on the morning when the horses are assigned.” He reached up, grasping Giorgio’s hand, wringing it until it hurt. Then the Chief did the same, and their eyes met in the complete understanding of one horseman for another.

  For the first time in his life Giorgio galloped all the way back. He brought his mount in blowing and lathered, a thing he had never done before. Quickly he sloshed water over her. He scraped off the excess. He put a blanket on her. He walked her cool. Then he tried to walk himself cool, up and down the Via Fontebranda, but his feet barely touched the cobblestones. He could not walk; he paced, he ran, he galloped. He felt like some god of long ago, like Mercury skimming the clouds.

  That evening when Signor Ramalli heard Giorgio’s news, his face lighted in pleasure. “If this honor had come to my own flesh and blood,” he said, “I could not be more glad. It is honor indeed that the Captain comes to you so long before the assignment of the horses. He must consider you able to handle any mount.”

  Later, in the stillness of night, Giorgio wrote to his father and mother. “Mamma and Babbo,” he carefully formed the letters, “to you I will dedicate my first Palio. And to Farfalla.”

  Not for one instant did he doubt that Farfalla would be chosen to run. Nor that in the drawing when the horses are assigned to the various contradas, the Contrada of Nicchio, the Shell, would win her. “It has to be,” he told himself.

  A month later, at the trials, Giorgio watched without breathing as Farfalla nearly took a spill at the starting rope but caught stride and finished fourth. In Giorgio’s mind his arch enemy, the groom who rode her, was entirely to blame for the bad start. But even so, she was among the ten chosen.

  Giorgio sighed in relief. This, he felt, was the first step toward his goal, and certain proof that he would ride her in the Palio. Was she not Bianca’s successor? Were not their life threads destined to come together?

  After the trials the very air of the Piazza seemed charged with intolerable suspense. The drawing was at hand. The hour was ten-thirty, the sun striking hot on the cobblestones. Still rankling over the clumsiness of Farfalla’s groom, Giorgio joined the throng gathering in front of the Palazzo Pubblico.

  Everything was beginning to happen. Ten barbarescos or 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.”

  Chapter XIV

  AT THE CURVE OF SAN MARTINO

  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 called Provas, 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!