Seven Seasons in Siena (17 page)

He waves a hand in dismissal. “There is no relationship,” he declares. “None.” So instead of the fire of animosity, there is the cold chill of mutual shunning. I'm not sure which is worse.

Giuliano has warmed to his topic and is smoking energetically; his eyes spark and flash, and inevitably he's speaking faster. It's become difficult for me to keep up. Part of me would like to follow this thread; I'm still not entirely certain how a contrada—any contrada—can feel righteous indignation with regard to another that has refused to let it fix a race. This is completely alien to every American notion of sportsmanship; but it is deeply, profoundly Sienese. It makes me feel as though I'll never truly belong here; that I've gone through a black hole to some alternate universe where the laws of physics are entirely different—where rain falls upward and people walk on their hands.

Rather than reveal my unworthiness to Giuliano, I decide to change the subject. Possibly I might ease him back into more measured cadences by asking about something farther back in history—specifically, the Bruco's official appellation: the Noble Contrada of the Caterpillar. Only three other contrade share this honorific (Eagle, Shell, and Goose, though a few others have earned titles other than “Noble”), and I was wondering what the Caterpillar had done to be so deserving. I've asked Dario, who explained that the title was awarded partly to reflect the brucaioli's valor in a Sienese victory over Florence in 1381 but that it also referred to some other signal event—“Ask Ghiselli,” he encouraged me.

“It dates from the fourteenth century,” Giuliano now says with confidence, “when Siena was ruled by the Council of Twelve. After a plague had nearly wiped out the population, the lives of the working class degenerated while the middle class thrived. This was particularly evident in the Caterpillar, which was part of the city's vital wool trade; the brucaioli were the principal wool carders. The ghettos in which we lived were so poor, and the government so unresponsive to our plight, that when they attempted to impose a new wool tax in 1371, it provoked a rebellion. We had simply been pushed too far. Barbicone, one of our civic heroes, organized a march on the
centro
, where we took control of the offices of government and even threw a city official from the top of the bell tower.” He puffs contentedly on his pipe for a few moments, as though pausing to savor the spectacular ferocity of this particular punishment. “A new government was formed, representing all the social classes, and the Caterpillar was able to negotiate with this new coalition the construction of proper housing on our main street—which is why we call it Via del Comune. There's a statue of Barbicone in the grotto,” he adds, nodding toward the fountain; so at last I've learned the identity of the heroic figure who stands beside the rampant caterpillar, wielding a sword as though directing traffic through eternity.

I find it very appealing that Giuliano speaks about the remote past with the same immediacy he does the near present. He's as engaged, emotionally, in the story of Barbicone as he is in the Peace Palio—the latter of which he gives the impression of having seen, though he would've had to be not much more than an infant. This is the kind of thing that makes these
people so attractive to me; their history isn't something they've left behind them, it's part of an ongoing narrative in which they themselves are playing a vital part.

I ask Giuliano about the Caterpillar's lucky number. Every contrada has one, ranging from single digits (5 for Porcupine) up to 90 (Ram). The Caterpillar's is 45, and you find it everywhere in the contrada, spoken or inscribed like a totem or a prayer. My own theory is that it comes from the steep grade of Via del Comune, which can feel like forty-five degrees after a rollicking contrada dinner.

Apparently I've overestimated my ability to understand, because Giuliano starts explaining how the number is actually connected to Hebrew numerology—at least I think that's what he's saying—but my grasp of his meaning is irreparably shattered when Dario shows up and takes a seat. This is the way things go in the contrada: you sit, you drink, you talk, and someone inevitably comes and joins you. Street life—urbanity at its most appealing. Of course I'm Dario's house-guest, and hence he's my ride home, but I prefer for the moment to pretend that this is an entirely random encounter.

Dario seems a little surprised to find us immersed in a subject so arcane, and I realize it is a bit silly—I'm supposedly here to learn about the life of the contrada and assimilate into it, not write a doctoral thesis on Caterpillar symbols and iconography. Dario accordingly changes the subject to Beppe di Bedo, the legendary brucaiolo who collected Rose Rosa at the 1996 extraction and who by many accounts was the corporealization of the contrada's spirit: masculine, indomitable, immovable.

Giuliano smiles and refills his pipe, a sign that he's content to stay a while longer (I was worried I might be boring him).
“Now,
there
was a man,” he says, smiling, and his eyes flash again. “I once caught him in a fistfight with someone twice his size. It was over a woman, of course. Beppe was a whirlwind; the other man couldn't seem to lay a hand on him. In fifteen minutes it was over, he'd beaten his opponent into the ground.

“He lacked the ability to feel pain,” he adds, enjoying the memory. “He easily absorbed blows that would have killed any one of us. But then he was solid muscle, a real gladiator; punching him was like punching a brick wall.”

The seductive tug of reminiscence eventually brings forth Giuliano's own personal history. “From 1956 through 1965, I was always one of the alfieri,” he says. “You should have seen me back then; I was very lean and handsome.” I believe it; he has the manner of someone who grew up confident in his good looks. “I was three times the
duce
, and once the
palafreniere
,” this being the man who accompanies the horse during the historical procession prior to the race, “despite my having no great affinity for horses. Also, if the occasion allowed, I was the drummer for the
giro della città
,” the tour of the city following a victory. “And I was often the page for Caterpillar weddings and funerals.”

I can almost see him now—young, lithe, limber, at the head of an entire procession of brucaioli, marching right past where we're seated now—these very walls reverberating with his steady rat-a-tat-tat, these cobblestones clattering with the footfalls of dozens—no, hundreds—of contradaioli: men, women, children; entire families, old men doddering on canes, children racing ahead of their parents, breathless and exhilarated. It's a scene that recurs here so often, perhaps the fabric of the time has become saturated; perhaps I really am
seeing the past bleed through to the present. Beppe di Bedo, with arms like steel cables and a small coterie of adoring women in his wake … Barbicone, his head held high in triumph, carrying on his shoulder a child whose future is immeasurably brighter because of him … the brawlers of the Peace Palio, missing teeth and flecked with blood, waving aloft the tatters of the contested banner.…

Maybe that's why the brucaioli frequent this little
sala da tè
, after all. So much volatility, so much volubility, so much of the raw stuff of
life
has filed past this humble stoop on its way into myth and legend. This is the place to hear its echoes—and to enjoy a front-row seat for the next round, when the time comes.

…

 
I FIND MYSELF BACK IN SOCIETÀ L'ALBA THE NEXT NIGHT
for an assembly. These are held regularly to discuss contrada business, and by a stroke of luck this month's coincides with my visit here. I arrive with Dario, who does not as a rule attend these events but who kindly agrees to stay and steer me through this one.

Apparently he's not the only brucaiolo to take a pass on these things, because the room isn't quite half filled. Fabio and Gianni are here, of course, as are Giorgio and some of the other officials, and of course Luigina, who greets me with slightly less ebulliance than usual. I take that as a good thing; it means she no longer finds it quite so remarkable a thing to see me.

Silvia takes over the meeting early, and I discover to my dismay that it's primarily fiscal in nature; the only thing more stupefyingly dull than financial accounts are financial accounts being given in a language you only partially understand.

Yet this is no everyday operations budget under discussion. It's rather an account of the funds paid out for the last Bao Bello, which, Dario whispers to me, is an extravagant
party the contrada throws every year in its gardens, to which anyone and everyone is invited. (
Baco
, or
bao
for short, means “worm”; this is what the Giraffe used to call the Caterpillar when they were enemies. In the time-honored way of truly spirited people, the brucaioli embraced the term used against them and named their annual feast “Beautiful Worm.”)

I'm not sure what he means by “extravagant party” until I see the expenses projected on-screen. There are healthy sums attached to such line items as American Bar, Aperitif Bar, Osteria, Pizzeria, Ristorante, Barbecue Bar, Pub, Barberi (a kind of ball game), and Ice Cream Stand—at which point I lose track.

But it appears there's plenty to discuss tonight. Some of those in attendance—a couple of younger guys in particular—are very vocal about the way the Bao Bello has degenerated into a kind of free-for-all. People arrive already drunk, and when the Caterpillars in attendance try to quell any nascent troubles, they're disrespected—sometimes to the point of threats—right here on their own home turf. I can't entirely follow the back-and-forth of the discussion, which flies like a volleyball between the complainants on one side and Fabio and Silvia on the other; but I can understand the nature of the grievances. I can also understand the frustration of the officials, who ask, quite reasonably, What do you suggest? Should we cancel Bao Bello entirely because of these troublemakers? That seems the only conceivable solution. It can't become an invitational, with guests presenting their tickets at the door; that would undermine the whole spirit of the event.

The discussion achieves even more velocity, so that soon I'm hearing nothing more than a rapid volley of vowel sounds. I choose the moment to slip out to the lavatory. On my way
back to the meeting room, I pause and look around me: the place is so empty—so still. I've never had the chance to see it this way before. I decide to take a quick tour of the museum, which occupies the levels above me. The last time I was here, some fifteen months ago, the place was packed with revelers celebrating the Caterpillar victory. Now there's no one.

In this exhilarating absence I can see, for the first time, the graceful outlines of the interior. These are the work of the architect Lorenzo Borgogni, who in 1967 hollowed out this ancient edifice—it was built in 1670—and in its place erected the swooping arches and columns of the first Bruco museum. It retains the rough, masculine character of the city and its people—it's all done in the ubiquitous red brick you see everywhere here—but it has a lightness and grace you can only call athletic, fitting for a people so devoted to sport and to the muscular sensuality of horseflesh in particular.

In the early twenty-first century, Borgogni's museum was thoroughly renovated and amplified, giving it a spare, minimalist makeover that's both completely modern and, I think, quite beautiful. The space is centered around a spiral staircase that seems suspended on nothing more than its own dazzling audacity; it looks like a scarf floating on a breeze. I climb it to the gallery that runs around the perimeter of the place, where the treasures, relics, and totems of past centuries are gathered behind sheets of glass, against backgrounds of translucent white. The contrast between the heavy, ornate, color-saturated artifacts and their new airy, almost weightless context provokes a wonderful frisson; it's as though the potent, powerful history on display here is contained by nothing more than a thought—which of course is very nearly the case. There's nothing here that would seem wildly out of
place in the life of the streets beyond. Gold crosses, silver reliquaries, coats of arms, devotional tablets, altarpieces, chalices, chargers, censers, banners … and of course vestments, which form the bulk of the collection and anchor it on each of the three levels. Tunics, doublets, jackets, hose, caps and capes, hats and helmets, shoes and boots; all of them vibrant and rich with embroidery and detail. There are even suits of armor; hell, there are kits for horses, including some saddles so splendid you'd think Versace had an equestrian line. And it's all akin to what you'll still see in a modern Palio procession; there are ensembles here for the barbaresco, the alfieri, the pages, the duce, everyone. I've been to Mardi Gras in West Hollywood, and let me tell you, those boys could
learn
something here.