Seven Seasons in Siena (31 page)

BACK AT LAST IN CHICAGO
, I take my fazzoletto and my certificate of baptism and place them on a shelf next to my karaoke trophy. And there they sit like an exhibit in my own personal museum—evidence of someplace I went and something I did.

I set out to earn entry into the society of the brucaioli—to worm my way into the Caterpillar, as it were; I was patient and diligent and did not allow various humiliations to disillusion me, and in the end I was rewarded with a moment of almost spiritual commingling with a people whose life force burns so very brightly and with such irrepressible joy. The memories of that transformative finale will sustain me through the coming months of trial and retrenchment, as I
turn my attention to the demands of a life I've left too long unmanaged in a world grown suddenly less navigable than I've known it to be.

Then, a week or so later, comes a text message from Dario:
Amazing! Gianni called for an assemblea straordinaria yesterday and announced that Gingillo is to be our jockey for three years! What an amazing captain we have! What a strategia!

I can just imagine the rapturous tumult in Società L'Alba when this news was delivered. People would be shouting, applauding, clamoring around Gianni. I can see it almost as if I'd been there.

Later Dario follows up with an email, its tone still pulsating with the same urgency as his text: “This is the talk of Siena. The various contrade now can't afford to wait for the extraction of the horses so that they can choose a jockey. Very few things are certain. Trecciolino will likely have his second chance for the Shell, but his job will now be much harder; and if they don't extract a good horse the Shell might lend him to another contrada rather than take the risk. Mulas who won last August and who was disqualified in July, I believe will end up in the Owl again.…”

He goes on to discuss a few other possibilities, and I try to tell myself how funny it all sounds now, how remote, even quaint. But in fact I can hear my heart beating in my ears. Trecciolino versus Gingillo? It seems as though a real rivalry is being set up—a clash of titans. Part of me would love to see Trecciolino triumph, because if he doesn't, it might signal both the end of his career and a historic generational shift in the fantini. On the other hand, I'm of the Caterpillar now, and that must be, and is, the thing that drives my desires. I badly want Gianni to have his fourth victory.

“This will be a super Palio with a Bruco protagonista! Gianni is amazing! I know you only just returned home, but you must come back even so. I've taken no clients, we'll live the days of the Palio to the fullest. You are a brucaiolo now, your place is here!”

And before I know it, I'm back at the shelf, taking down my fazzoletto. My clients, my business, my slowly eroding stateside life—all that can wait another few weeks for my full attention. Jeffrey will just have to understand. Because I'm realizing that yes, an arc
does
have an ending; but every life is an arc too, and I can suddenly see the trajectory of this one. I can see it with great clarity, and there are no museum pieces in it.

I WATCH THE AUGUST PALIO NOT IN THE PIAZZA DEL CAMPO
but on a small TV in Bar Macario among a group of rapt brucaioli. Despite having everything in our favor (including a very capable horse, Elfo di Montalbo), we know we're out of contention the moment the Caterpillar draws tenth place at the mossa—the rincorsa, which is a decisive position (since it's the rincorsa who determines when the race begins) but one from which it's nearly impossible to win. And so it proves for Gingillo, who despite a heroic effort finishes fourth. The race is won instead by the Tortoise, whose victory becomes the twelfth in the increasingly legendary career of its fantino: Gigi Bruschelli, aka Trecciolino.

AS SHOULD BE EVIDENT TO ANYONE WHO'S READ THE PRECEDING
pages, this book would simply not exist without the unflagging support, wise counsel, and patient shepherding of Dario Castagno, who is the best friend either I or the Noble Contrada of the Caterpillar could ever have. Anyone who has even remotely enjoyed this narrative is hereby encouraged to delve into Dario's own books on his extraordinary life in the Chianti countryside (as well as his beautiful
My Chianti
DVD), about which you can learn more at his website,
dariocastagno.com
.

I owe both eternal gratitude and eternal fellowship to all the brucaioli, who provided me with a vision of an ideal society and then warmly welcomed me into it. Among them, I'm most deeply indebted to Fabio Pacciani, Giovanni Falciani, Gianni Morelli, Giorgio Farneschi, Luigina Beccari, Giuliano Ghiselli, Claudio Bani, and my bruco
madrina
, Silvia Trapassi. Thanks to my fellow American Peggy Castaldi for her shining example, to Cristina Cinotti for Italian editing, and to Luigi Ravagni for kindly photographing my baptism.

Heartfelt thanks and friendship to D.I., for so many, many reasons.

I am humbled by the generosity shown to me by the
heroic fantini Cianchino, Trecciolino, and Rompicollo; I will never be able to repay it.

Those who wish to know more about the Palio and the life of the contrade can do no better than to check out Alan Dundes and Alessandro Falassi's
La Terra in Piazza: An Interpretation of the Palio of Siena
, an exhaustive and endlessly surprising study that remains the definitive word on the subject more than three decades after it was written. My own copy is very well traveled, and even now I keep it close at hand.

Thanks to Sally Turner, Biff Gentsch, and Miles and Grace Turner-Gentsch for sharing the home stretch with me—and for all the other indelible moments of our long and joyful friendship.

Mere thanks are inadequate for Luke Dempsey, my editor and this project's champion, and Christopher Schelling, my agent and personal hero.

Additional
ringraziamenti
for behind-the-scenes support and friendship go to Haven Kimmel, Augusten Burroughs, Simone Bianchi, Alessandra Addis, Clare Hennessy, Suzanne Plunkett, Lisa Hewitt, and John, Margie, and Iain Gayley; I owe you all more than I can say.

Tante grazie
to Daniela Cavallero, who taught me to speak (and curse!) in Italian, and to Paola Morgavi, who graciously guided me through many of the language's great literary works.

Thanks to my dad for the Italian genes—and everything else he's ever done for me.

And finally, enduring love and thanks to Jeffrey Smith, who held house and home (and dogs!) together while I spent seven seasons chasing a beguiling and elusive dream.