Gaudenzia, Pride of the Palio Read online

  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 fantino formidabile! 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 me down! Put me down! 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, “someone multo importante wishes 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 see me?” 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.

  Chapter XVII

  GAUDENZIA, JOY OF LIVING

  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 stee
pened, 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 . . . I will 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, Gaudenzia is 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 h
ead, laughing as light-heartedly as a boy, and the flutter of notes from the palace window echoed their happiness.

  Chapter XVIII

  BACK HOME TO THE MAREMMA

  The next morning broke clear and cool, and Giorgio set out before sunup for Doctor Celli’s villa. He carried only a small parcel containing his clothes, which were wrapped about a chunk of bread and a salami. If Gaudenzia was fit to travel, he would make her load as light as possible.

  The shadowed road was still cool from the night, and the birds only beginning to sing. Giorgio whistled as he strode along, and the notes came so light and fast he could hardly keep up with them. The song he whistled was about the common road to glory, and there was such a bursting in his chest that he half ran the shadowy climbing way to the villa on the hilltop.

  The sun was less than an hour high when he stood at Doctor Celli’s door, completely out of breath. “Suppose,” he suddenly thought, “the doctor is a late riser! Suppose word has not reached him that I am coming and he is off hunting rabbits in the hills. Suppose the weasely groom is in charge!”

  But before Giorgio could pick up the brass knocker, a beautiful shiny one made in the image of a unicorn, the door opened wide and Doctor Celli, with a dog at his heels, stepped outside.

  “Buon giorno,” he smiled in welcome. “Your whistling and the barking of my hound announced you well ahead of time. Before I take you to the mare, I have some things to explain.” He led the way to an ornamental bench in the midst of a rose garden, and motioned Giorgio to sit beside him. The red-eyed hound nosed the boy appraisingly, then flopped at his feet.

  Doctor Celli began, choosing his words carefully. “To you, I believe I can talk as man to man.”