Seven Seasons in Siena (11 page)

That doesn't mean they won't be actively involved. The Giraffe is running, and though officially there is no longer a rivalry between that contrada and the Caterpillar, no one in the Bruco will want to see it win. Whereas Tower and Porcupine, both allies of the Bruco, are running as well, and the brucaioli will do what they can, behind the scenes, to help them; though the rumor is that the Porcupine doesn't want to win. It's still paying off its victory of last July. That's the downside of winning a Palio; it's
expensive
.

And then there's the Owl; it hasn't had a victory in thirty years. Almost everyone would find an Owl victory satisfying—except, of course, its bitter rival, the Unicorn, which is also racing; but rather than focusing on its own chances, the Unicorn's main objective will be to stop the Owl, keeping it firmly in the humiliating “grandmother” spot (i.e., the contrada with the longest losing streak).

I have plenty of time to ruminate on all this as I stroll the length of the Pisa airport, waiting for the bus to arrive. It shows up after only about fifty minutes—which for Italians is downright alacrity—and I find a nice, comfortable window
seat and sink into it. In fact, it's so cozy—and the hum of the motor so soothing—that I drop right off to sleep and don't awaken till the bus pulls up in front of Florence's Peretola Airport and brakes with a brain-shattering hiss.

I stagger out, collect my bag from the luggage compartment, and hail a cab. I throw my bag into its trunk, then get in and direct the driver to take me to the center of town.

He pulls away and heads toward the ramp leading to the highway. As he does so, I reach into my pocket for my wallet. It's one of my little quirks; I like to have the fare all tallied up and ready before I actually arrive at my destination.

But my wallet isn't in my pocket.

It isn't in my other pocket either.

It isn't in my back pockets, or any of the pouches on my carry-on, or—anywhere. My wallet isn't
anywhere
.

I lean forward and tell the driver—in a voice I immediately recognize as too frantic, too high-pitched—to pull over, pull over, something's wrong.

While he's parked on the side of the road I spastically grope myself all over a few more times, hoping for a telltale bulge—where? over my shoulder blade? inside my sock? am I crazy?—but there's nothing, nothing, nothing.

“I have to get out,” I tell him. “I can't pay you.” He says something to me in return that I don't catch, but I'm in no condition even to try to understand. I fumble my way out of the cab and slam the door, and he drives away.

With my bag in his trunk.

It takes me a few seconds to realize this; then I give chase, shouting and flailing my arms—but it's no use. His taillights grow smaller and dimmer, and then he's gone.

And I'm standing on the side of a road in a strange country in the middle of the night, with no cash, no credit cards, no change of clothing, no toothbrush, no
anything
.

Actually, that's not quite true; I do have my cellphone and my passport, both of which were tucked into the opposite pocket from the one that bore the wallet. Which, I now realize, was very likely stolen—plucked from my hip while I was, what? Looking the opposite direction? Talking to a fellow passenger?—I try to recall whether anyone bumped into me, grazed me; and if so, where. But it's impossible to know for sure; over the past several hours I've been through two airports and aboard a bus, and asleep for some of it. Someone pressing against me, or touching me, wouldn't be even remotely worth noting.

But there's a chance that the wallet
wasn't
stolen—that it fell out of my pocket on the bus. Accordingly I run all the way back to the terminal, hoping to catch the bus before it departs—only to have it nearly mow me down as it barrels away from the terminal. I actually have to leap out of its path to avoid being killed, landing on the side of the road and skidding across some gravel into something that makes a disquieting squish.

I get unsteadily to my feet and dust myself off, then head inside to clean up at the public restroom. And it's only then, staring at my pale, wild-eyed face in the mirror, that I realize how deep is the shit in which I now am. The airport is a ghost town at this late hour. All the kiosks and counters are shuttered; there doesn't appear even to be an official of any kind on-site.

Back out in the terminal, I plonk myself into a chair, phone in hand. The charge is almost gone, so I have to choose
carefully whom I dial. I had, before leaving, jotted down all my credit card numbers in case they were lost or stolen; but I did that in a small moleskin notebook that I tucked into my carry-on bag, which is now in the back of a cab whose license plate and number I didn't have a chance to note. The only alternative left is to call Jeffrey in Chicago and tell him—in a tone of voice I try to keep steady and rational, though with apparently limited success because he keeps telling me to “Calm down”—to go to my file drawer and get all my credit records and call in the missing cards for me. I don't even know what time it is in America, but it doesn't matter—it's already a pretty big imposition; the kind that really tests relationships. He promises to handle it, and while we're talking the call waiting alert starts booping. It's Dario, checking to see whether I've landed safely. Yes, I tell him, I've
landed
safely; but now I'm stuck at the Florence airport and will have to survive the coming days by eating the remains of discarded offbrand Euro-snacks that I scavenge from trash bins.

Suddenly Dario, too, is telling me to calm down. In the kind of voice you'd use on an idiot child or an easily distracted dog, he tells me to take a cab to Florence and have the desk manager advance me the fare; then tomorrow Dario will send someone to pick me up and settle my bill. It's an eminently reasonable and kind solution, though he has to repeat it in its entirety because in my present state of mind it sounds like a geometric theorem in Urdu.

Just having someone looking out for me—someone actually on the same continent, no less—has a calming effect, and I'm able to go back outside to the taxi stand with some degree of equanimity. It's very late, and there aren't many cabs to be had—but there's one just pulling away from the curb. I recognize
the driver; it's the guy who picked me up twenty minutes ago. He must've just circled back to get another fare.

Once again I find myself chasing him down, and when he pauses at a speed bump I hammer my fists on his trunk. He sticks his head out the window and stares at me with eyes so wide they look like they're attached to novelty glasses, as I tell him in a mixture of English, Italian, and Crazy Person that my bag is in his trunk. Eventually I persuade him to pop it open so I can retrieve it, after which he peels away as though afraid I might now climb up on his hood and start humping his windshield.

The two remaining taxi drivers, having witnessed all this, are equally reluctant to have me in their backseat, especially when I explain that I have no actual cash. But eventually, by some means, I persuade one of them and he drives me to Florence, where the hotel, having been alerted by Dario, checks me into a room with minimal explanation on my part.

Now that I've got my bag back, I have access to all my records, so I call American Express—which has already canceled my card, thanks to Jeffrey—and ask for a cash advance on my account. The people there are perfectly obliging, and ask how much I want; I say, “Nine hundred dollars,” and they don't even balk, which makes me feel like I'm such a tremendously savvy traveler, massaging victory from the mire of defeat.

But then the representative says she has to ask a few “security questions” to ascertain that I am indeed me. Purely a formality. The questions include: What is the square footage of your house? What was your last zip code? And what was your last telephone number?

I'm not able to answer any of them. I mean, come on. I've
lived in my house for thirteen years, I don't remember my last zip code or phone number. I can barely remember the name of the guy across the hall. As for my square footage—are you goddamn kidding me? “Do you know the square footage of
your
house?” I ask the representative. She says, “Mr. Rodi, these questions are chosen because they're a matter of public record,” and it's here that I lose my cool pretty much completely. “If they're a matter of public record,” I howl, “then
why are you using them as security questions
?” I'm so mad I actually jump up and down, like an anime character.

The upshot is, I'm declined. American Express will advance me exactly zilch. I don't remember exactly what I say after that; I do recall that the language was more than usually colorful. It's probably all transcribed in my permanent record somewhere.

Still, if my permanent record meant anything, I'd have been taken out and shot years ago.

…

 
I HAVE NO BETTER LUCK WITH AMERICAN EXPRESS THE
next day. The best they can do is to send a replacement card, which won't reach me till I'm actually leaving Italy; in fact, it will be delivered to my hotel here in Florence the night before I fly home.

I'm somewhat more sanguine about all this now that I've had a good night's sleep. The problem I now have is that I've lost my independence. Since I have no cash and no means of getting any, I'll be completely reliant on Dario—to the extent that I won't be able to go my own way in Siena. It doesn't hurt my pride—that being a battered old tank that's taken too many hits to care anymore—but it does mean I'm far less able to make any impression on the brucaioli beyond the one they already have of me: Dario's American friend. It won't make for a wasted visit, but it might mean many missed opportunities.

A car arrives for me at the hotel, and its driver—a Roman transplant named Sandro whom Dario has trained as a Chianti tour guide—pays my bill using Dario's credit card, then speeds me off to Siena. He's an affable enough fellow, but no fan of either the Palio (too “brutal”) or the contrade (“arrogant”).
This is something of an epiphany for me, because if you take “brutal” and “arrogant” and give them just the slightest twist, the light glints off them differently, and what you get are “fierce” and “passionate,” which are two of the attributes that have brought me back here, like a lovesick suitor. One man's grease and sugar paste is another man's Twinkies.

Dario texts me to meet him on the Campo, at Bar Palio, where he's escorting a couple from New Zealand, the Meads, to the extraction of the horses. I feel terrible about having to barge in on them this way; after all, they've paid handsomely for Dario's time, and now I'm intruding on it. But as it happens they recognize my name from Dario's books and are delighted to have me along. It's my first indication that Dario has become, for some people, almost as enticing a phenomenon as the Palio itself, and they relish inside glimpses into his exotic life and international connections. They're very gracious, at any rate, and pretend to be riveted by the story of my lost wallet. So much so that it takes a few moments for Dario to get us all back on track and finish his rundown of the current state of Palio politics.

This particular race, we learn, has been dubbed
il Palio dei debuttanti
—the Palio of the Debutants—because there are a whopping six new horses, with only four returning veterans. (I ask about Elisir, but alas, he won't be back; he recently suffered a slight injury that has removed him from competition. But you can't feel bad for him; according to the protocols instituted by the city of Siena, any horse who has ever run a Palio is entitled to retire to a
pensionario
where he can spend the rest of his days running free.) This sheer number of debuting horses makes it more difficult to handicap the various contrade's chances. But it may give a slight edge to the contrade
who have gone the longest without a victory and who are therefore presumably richer (never having had to pay out for a win).

After I've inhaled all the chips and pretzels on the table (it's the first food I've had since the plane), we head into the Campo to watch the extraction. It's lacking a little in its usual drama—with so many new horses, it's less clear which contrada walks away with the advantage—but it's always a thrill to witness the complete immersion of the crowd in the procedure. There's something uncanny about an assemblage some thousand persons strong, maintaining a silence so complete you can practically hear the anxious grinding of teeth.

I haven't really stopped to take my bearings till now; everything since I landed has been so unmoored. But now, standing in the Campo, with the long shadow of the Torre del Mangia falling over the gathering as though collecting us all into an embrace—and the intense focus of those around me, their utter fixation on the activities of the officials seated on the platform before the Palazzo Pubblico as they draw first the name of the horse, then that of the contrada whose hopes will literally ride on its back—all this provokes in me a stillness of equal ardor. And I feel at once a sudden pull, an involuntary but welcome lapsing into something, not quite eternal but of such uncanny reliability that it might be considered as inevitable as the seasons, as the phases of the moon:
i giorni del Palio
—the days of the Palio. A great ongoing narrative that is always new and always the same; always fraught with the unexpected, yet reliable in its familiarity. I find myself so much more present in this single moment, so highly aware of its place in both the context of what has led up to it and what will launch forth from it, that petty concerns such as lost wallets
fade into silly insignificance. I barely notice the heat of the day, the way the sun prickles the skin over my scalp and my shirt clings damply to my back; I'm too gripped by events—by the power of story.