Love Falls (26 page)

White was the colour of the apprentice, a white cotton tunic with bangles and bells. The more experienced dancers dressed in silk. Peacock-blue, green and pink. Slap, went her feet, slap slap, and swift as a salamander she turned her head from side to side. The longer she danced the more clearly India came back to her, and with a shock that she could ever have forgotten him, she thought of Thubten Dawa.

He'd come to see them where they lived in Bangalore, introduced himself and asked if there was anything they needed. They were living in the back room of an Indian widow and her daughter, and although there was nothing they needed, Thubten Dawa stayed to talk. He was studying economics in Bangalore, having until last year lived with his family at the refugee camp at Bylakuppe. Thubten was wiry and dark-skinned. He was kind and calm and very handsome, and soon he was visiting them most afternoons, sitting on the wall outside the widow's house, chatting, gossiping and laughing.

By the end of the first week Lara had forgotten that she'd ever been in love with Sam. Had ever thought she'd not recover when they'd said goodbye to him in Delhi. Her lessons flew by in anticipation of seeing him each afternoon. Thubten Dawa. She still had his message to her in her diary. ‘My greatest wish for you,' he'd written, ‘is that you become enlightened.' Lara pressed the palms of her hands together over her head and stepped forward, heels first like a camel.

Dawa, she remembered, Dawa means the moon, and she thought how once they'd taken a bus to the sea. They'd gone to visit the temple at Mamallapuram where the original Indian dancing had been danced, and finding it deserted, Lara had performed, wearing her bikini, for no one but her mother, two lepers and Thubten Dawa. It had been Lara's idea to ask Thubten if he'd like to come. He would like to, he said, very much.

As soon as they arrived they'd gone to the beach. There were very few people there, several men in shirts and trousers, and women in saris, a small party of them wading fully dressed into the waves, but Cathy and Lara wrapped themselves in their dhotis and changed into costumes. Thubten Dawa, very serious, took off his shirt and rolled up his trousers, and together the three of them stepped into the water. The sea was warm. Warm compared to the ice chill of their Scottish lake, but Thubten was not so sure. He walked in carefully, slowly, and then an unexpected wave hit him in the face.

He stepped back, fell, and a moment later he leapt up. ‘Salt,' he gasped. ‘It tastes of salt!' And as if chased by black magic he ran to the safety of the sand.

Lara and Cathy stood in the shallows and laughed. They laughed and laughed. They couldn't stop. It tastes of salt, they said to each other and Lara thought how strange it would be if it tasted of anything else.

 

 

The next day, as soon as she woke, Lara knew Kip wouldn't come. She lay by the pool without sun cream until her skin smelt scorched, and later when she was getting dressed she allowed herself to stand naked in front of the mirror for the first time since that night. That night, the words were like a punch, and she said them again, spitting them out, that night, that night. But repetition didn't soften them. Her face looked pale, even through the mask of brown, pale and spiteful and hard. ‘That night,' she said more softly, and she thought of Kip and their kissing. The way they'd leant against their tree and intertwined themselves like branches. They'd kissed until their kissing was like talking and their tongues had formed whole libraries of words.

Lara stood in a sea of abandoned clothes.

‘Are you ready?' Caroline called up the stairs. She'd already told her she wanted to leave for the trial at four o'clock.

‘Yes,' Lara called down and she pulled on her jeans and a shirt, slipped on her sandals and ran down.

Caroline stood by the door, her bag in her hand, quivering to be gone.

‘One minute,' Lara begged, and she ran out to the terrace where her father was reading, his foot propped up and draped with a poultice of Ginny's remedy of herbs. ‘See you later.' Lara leant down over him, and as she did so he started and the book dropped from his hands.

‘Yes,' he said, and when he looked up his eyes were bleary and the lines on his forehead had deepened into grooves.

‘I'm sorry, did I wake you?' she asked, but even as he shook his head there was a loud impatient hoot from Caroline outside.

They drove in silence along the road towards Siena, only murmuring occasionally to acknowledge the traffic, which grew heavier as they reached the outskirts of the city. Caroline sped up a side road, roared along a narrow terraced street, made a steep turn that gave them a view of the city walls. She waved cheerfully at a policewoman who was beckoning frantically for people to drive past a car that had caught fire, and as they went Lara turned and watched the flames fly higher, the black clouds of smoke billowing out.

Caroline wove skilfully through back streets until they arrived at the post-office square at the top of the town, where she pulled into the entrance of a building. A man appeared at the car window, Lara assumed to reprimand her, but instead he greeted her with an eager flow of Italian, and held the door for her to get out. As benevolent as a Queen, Caroline rewarded him with a smile and a few perfect phrases before handing him her keys and walking away.

Lara ran to catch up. There were people everywhere, all flowing down towards the Campo, some wearing scarves emblazoned with the colours of their
contrada
, others holding flags, almost all eating ice creams. Lara had never seen so many grown people eating ice creams. In Britain ice creams were for children, something they were expected to grow out of, but here it was a national pastime, to sit and lick at enormous melting cones.

‘This is my favourite
gelateria
,' Caroline said, as if she'd been reading her thoughts, and they crowded into a glass emporium and craned to get a glimpse of the flavours on show. ‘You should try the
crema
,' Caroline said. ‘It tastes like custard. Or the meringue, which isn't like anything you'll ever get at home,' and taking Lara's smile as acceptance she ordered her a double cone, and one for herself too.

The ice creams were huge and in danger of sliding off, so they stood in the shop and ate them. Caroline ate hungrily and so did she. The ice cream was delicious, frothy and light, and it occurred to Lara that it was the first food she'd really tasted since that night. Stop it, she cursed at herself and she bit into the cone.

‘We could have one more?' Caroline's eyes were straining in the direction of the counter. ‘The chocolate shouldn't be missed.'

Lara gave an involuntarily laugh of surprise, and regretted it instantly, because instead of ordering two more doubles Caroline wiped her fingers carefully on a tissue, patted her bag tight against her shoulder, and suggested they walk on.

‘Today is the day when all the
contrade
parade their horses through the streets,' she said. ‘They sing their own song, shake their fists at their enemies, and later, after the
prova
– the trial – they have a celebration dinner. Each
contrada
attends a feast to celebrate the fact they might be about to win, even Il Bruco, even though they haven't actually won for twenty-six years.'

They walked past a square where long tables, more of them than she could count, were laid with white cloths, set with plates and bowls and glasses. It's so clever, she thought, to celebrate when everyone is still a possible winner. To celebrate the night before the race.

At the bottom of the street as it led into the Campo there was a barrier where they showed their tickets, and there was the Piazza, transformed. A ring of earth had been laid around its edge and banks of seats had been set up against the walls of every building. Already the centre of the square was full of people, who, Caroline told her, had been waiting there all day. They looked like a scattering of confetti, the thousands of multicoloured T-shirts all squashed together.

‘It's best to see the procession from a side street,' Caroline said, and she almost ran along the earth track to the first street on the left.

They crowded into a doorway where behind them people bulged and pushed, squeezing in and out of the tiny café with slices of pizza and bottles of water. They hadn't waited long when they heard the singing. It started with a swell, a sudden warrior-like singing, and then the marchers were upon them.

In the lead was a wild-eyed horse, and right behind, four, five, six deep, was the
contrada
of the Goose. They were all men, their chests thrust forward, their heads back, roaring out the song, shaking their fists, bursting with oaths and pride. They were followed by the women, short and fierce – fighting people – and then a troupe of children, singing at the high tops of their voices.

‘My God.' Lara had caught some of Caroline's thrill. ‘What are they singing?' And Caroline, her face flushed, told her.

‘We are the best, the rest are shit! Our
contrada
is the most beautiful in the world!'

‘Really?' Lara strained for the next
contrada
to appear.

She was pushing forward herself now, and with a burst of the same song, the
contrada
of the Eagle in its gold, black and blue stormed by. The horse looked frisky, its head held high, and everyone stepped back from it, the crowd almost collapsing into the doorway of the shop as it pranced to the side.

‘But they're singing the same song.'

‘Yes,' Caroline told her, but with different words. ‘
We
are the best, the
rest
are shit,
Our contrada
is the most beautiful in the world.'

Contrada
after
contrada
rushed by, each one singing their own fierce song. The melody made the hairs stand up on Lara's arms, made her heart swell with fierce yearning.

‘Here comes Il Nicchio. This is our horse!' Caroline pushed herself forward as the grey mare was paraded past.

The
contrada
of the Shell marched behind in a blaze of white and pale-blue, a rank of big-nosed, balding men, warrior chests stuck out in front.

When the last
contrada
had passed, its song echoing away into the square, Caroline took her arm. ‘Now, we need to make a rush for the square.'

They fell in behind a stream of people, all going the same way, all pushing and running towards their seats.

‘Over here.' Caroline was nimble as a goat and Lara followed her along the cordoned-off fence of the track to a bank of seats behind the starting line.

An official opened a little gate for them and Lara clambered up the steps. The seats were halfway up the stands and Lara put out her hand to help Caroline climb. To her surprise she accepted it.

‘Done,' she said, breathless, as she slipped into her place, and together they leaned forward to watch as men appeared with long brooms and began sweeping their footsteps from the track.

Not long after a rope was brought out, coiled around a stick and carried by two men. It was stretched across the track just below them, attached to a weight, and once it was in place a hush fell over the crowd. It wouldn't be long now. Soon the horses would be released on to the track. They were waiting, Caroline said, inside the huge hall of the Palazzo at the bottom of the Campo.

And here they were, trotting up the hill of the square, the riders making unfamiliar shapes with no saddles or stirrups, their legs simply hanging down. Lara peered closer to identify each jockey in their colours, the patterns of each
contrada
layered over their hats. Ahead of them, on the far side of the course, was a hazardous corner where horses were most likely to crash, riders fly off, bones shatter.

The ten horses stopped several paces from the starting line, twisting and turning, jostling and waiting, while the crowd whispered and chatted and craned to see. And then there was a crackle of the loudspeaker and a series of sharp shushes to anyone who dared speak. Lara felt the tension all around her as every single person in the square, as many as a hundred thousand, held their breath. And then a voice rang out, and amid a splatter of applause La Civetta – the Owl – pranced forward, and skittering, side-stepping and attempting to walk him backwards his jockey shifted him into first place alongside the central fence. Il Bruco – the Caterpillar – was the next to be called out and Caroline shook her head. ‘No luck.'

Quickly, and with growing excitement, all ten horses were called out, Il Nicchio at eighth place, beside him, at nine, Il Drago, the Dragon, and the tenth horse L'Aquila, the Eagle. L'Aquila stayed back.

‘Why doesn't he come forward?' Lara asked, almost unable to bear the tension as she watched Il Drago shift and shove against Il Nicchio's flanks, squeezing the horse right out of the race, forcing its head to turn so that if the race did start it would be facing the wrong way.

‘The tenth horse is the King Maker,' Caroline explained. ‘He is only allowed to start when each horse is lined up in order,' and just at that moment every horse seemed magically to be still.