Seven Seasons in Siena (4 page)

“Isn't that Dario?” Jeffrey says. “It is! Over there!”

I look to where he's pointing and see, to my astonishment, our good friend—ever suave, ever dignified, ever at his ease in any place or situation—marching frenetically with four other men, all playing flutes and none wearing pants. “Why are they walking like penguins?” I ask. “I don't get it.”

The closer they get, the odder it seems. I've known Dario for several years, ever since we hired him to escort us around the Chianti wine country; he was the region's first dedicated tour guide and has become something of a celebrity as a result. He's best known for his old-world charm, poise, and diplomacy, and for the unflappability with which he handles even the most batshit-insane American clients. Seeing him now, strutting about with bare legs and mugging like a clown, is like being thrown into Bizarro world. What possible cultural force could prompt my old friend to so gleefully jettison his trademark dignity?

As he passes, we wave to attract his attention, but he doesn't see us. He's too thoroughly in the zone.

The parade moves at a more leisurely pace than the average briskly martial American affair, and there appears to be no end in sight. Much as I'd like to see it in its entirety, we have to tear ourselves away and get back to the villa for an early night.

Back at the car, I say, “I'm not done here.”

Jeffrey pauses with his hand on the ignition key. “Well, make up your mind. Is it an early night, or isn't it?”

“I don't mean tonight. I mean, I'm coming back someday. I'm coming back, and I'm doing all of this over again. I'm not letting these people out of my sight.”

And then Jeffrey pulls into traffic and drives away, and we turn our minds back to car rental returns and seat assignments.

…

 
WHAT WITH CAREER AND FAMILY OBLIGATIONS, IT'S FIVE
years before I can manage to return; and when I do, it's to a room at the San Francesco, a bed-and-breakfast set squarely in the heart of the Caterpillar district—in fact, my window looks down on the very grotto, with its sculpture of a rampant caterpillar, that serves as a locus for the neighborhood. I couldn't possibly be better situated unless I took up residency in the grotto itself, which would possibly be disrespectful.

I've also learned that my room at the San Francesco is just yards away from the stable where the Caterpillar's horse will soon be stalled. The animal will have the benefit of constant attention by the contrada's chief groom, called the
barbaresco
.

At this point I could use a barbaresco myself. As I unpack my suitcase, I feel a slight disorientation. Five years haven't dimmed my resolve to know and understand this community; if anything, it's added a new element: to become one of them. In fact, several months ago I became a dues-paying
protettore
of the contrada—literally, a protector—and as such got on its mailing list. I've been regularly receiving notifications of its upcoming events—competitions, parties, excursions, celebrations—which has helped me construct in my head a
kind of narrative for its residents' communal lives: vital, active, and above all cheerful. So much joy comes bleeding through those emails; my screen seems to brighten perceptibly whenever I open one. So it was only natural that eventually I'd find myself dreaming of being part of it all, lulling myself to sleep with fantasies of entering the contrada headquarters to shouts of acclaim and throngs of well-wishers. But now that I'm here, I can feel in my bones how ridiculous those visions were; I'm just a bit of flotsam on an enormous current that's barreling through Via dei Rossi and down Via del Comune. I'm no one.

I've arrived during
i giorni del Palio
—the days of the Palio—and the spirits of the contrada are pitched so high, your spectacles might crack if you creep too close. The last time I was here, I had Jeffrey to talk to, so I hadn't noticed the complete immersion of the natives in their annual rite. Now, on my own, I'm confronted with the enormity of their self-containment; this is the time of year when they most fully express their civic identities, when they celebrate their friendships and their rivalries and crown a new winner in their never-ending struggle for dominance. In essence, Siena is a city that defines itself by competition, by victory and defeat, by serious
play
. What happens this week will have repercussions for months to come and will reshape the municipal narrative, reordering the entire hierarchy and drawing brand-new battle lines. Which means that a visiting American, in this place and at this time, has so little chance of making any kind of impression on the locals that I could sprout wings and fly circles around the Palazzo Pubblico without exciting comment.

Yet I mean to make myself known. At the very least I
know there's an encouraging precedent. In the years since I was last here, Dario has published a few memoirs, the first of which contains the story of one Roy Moskovitz, a middle-aged academic from New York who came to Siena in the 1960s, fell in love with the Caterpillar contrada, and through the sheer relentlessness of his ardor became beloved of it in return. Its residents succumbed to his persistence, and to his earnestness and charm, and embraced him as one of their own. In fact, one of the halls in their headquarters is named after him—a room above the museum where the Caterpillar's officials, collectively known as the
sedia
, take their meetings.

If it happened once, it can happen again—can't it? If I can show the brucaioli the genuineness of my fascination for them, who knows?

While I'm contemplating this, Dario arrives. It's been a few years since we've seen each other, so we manfully hug; and there I've got at least
one
Caterpillar to embrace me. (Couple thousand to go.)

Accompanying Dario is an American woman, Rachel, a svelte blond beauty with sparkling blue eyes. It turns out she's from Muncie, Indiana, so we're practically neighbors; in fact, we find we know people in common through literary circles. She's a poet and a teacher and is clearly as thrilled to be here as I am.

I'd been counting on Dario to shepherd me through my initial days as a Caterpillar wannabe, but it rapidly becomes apparent that he'll be spending the majority of his time with Rachel. Dario is very good-looking and has an abundance of courtly, old-world charm; American women find him irresistible. (Italian women aren't exactly immune either.) I learned pretty early in our friendship not to get in the way of
that, lest I fall prey to the ire of neglected females; so I resign myself to making my own way as best I can.

There's a dinner at the contrada headquarters, which I now learn is called Società L'Alba. (I ask why; apparently when it was inaugurated, the brucaioli had a meeting to decide on a name. They argued fruitlessly until the sun rose—at which time they settled on Alba, meaning “dawn.”) Dario escorts me inside and delivers me into the care of Luigina Beccari, who is the wife of the society's president. He actually introduced us via email a few months ago, and Luigina and I have corresponded infrequently ever since, so we're already on friendly electronic terms; she greets me with a big hug (two down!) and kisses on both cheeks. She's an immediately adorable presence—diminutive, with close-cropped dark hair—and is just staggeringly chic, decked out head to toe in typically Italian couture. You know the kind I mean: Versace, Dolce&Gabbana—clothes so singular that wearing them equips you for anything from a papal audience to fighting crime. Luigina's eyeglasses alone are so fashion-forward I feel my knees start to buckle in unworthiness.

Luigina has the Lauren Bacall rasp of a career smoker, which somehow suits her; it adds the gravitas otherwise denied her by her small stature. She talks a blue streak as she takes me down to the garden, and my heart goes all pinball wizard at the sight of it again, the trees twinkling with lights, the tables burgeoning with revelers, the banners of blue, green, and gold stirring gently in the breeze. And already there's singing—little clutches of melody from various points across the garden, overlapping one another in a kind of carefree counterpoint. On the opposite end of the property, on an expanse of lawn, several youths of the contrada are practicing
the arts of drumming and flag tossing—they must be the alfieri; it seems strange to see them out of costume, going through their ancient maneuvers in blue jeans and T-shirts.

I've made it clear that I don't want to sit at the table reserved for visitors, and Luigina obliges by seating me at her own table—where, however, she's also lodged two young American students, one of whom is boarding with her. (Siena is home to one of Haly's premier universities for foreigners.) Between Rachel from Muncie and now Joshua and Brian from Los Angeles, I'm spending an unexpected amount of time here talking to my own countrymen; but when I eavesdrop on the conversations of the adjacent natives, I realize I should maybe be grateful for that. My Italian is pretty decent—I've been studying for several years, since my first visit to Italy, when it became apparent I'd be returning here again and again for the rest of my life—but I'm finding the Tuscan accent a very tough one. The consonant sounds are very soft, especially the hard “C”—in Tuscan, “Coca-Cola” can sound like “Hoha-Howa.” (This can make for some dizzying misunderstandings; at one point, after I've had a bit to drink, Luigina turns to me and apparently calls me “honey,” which flatters me into a sheepish smile; she says it twice more, and I give her arm an affectionate squeeze in response. And it's only when she gestures toward the platter to my right that I realize she's actually asking me to pass the meat—
“Carne, carne.”
)

What I
can
glean from the discussions going on around me is that there's a thrill of excitement over the extractions, which take place tomorrow morning. This is the ceremony in which the various contrade are assigned, by lottery, the horses they'll race in the Palio four days later. The most desirable
mount seems to be a certain Già del Menhir; whoever extracts him will be considered to have a significantly better shot at winning.

Another item I pick up on is a bit of Bruco arcana. In the twentieth century, the Caterpillar won in 1907, 1912, 1922, and 1955; then came a long dry spell before the great jockey Cianchino rode Rose Rosa to victory in 1996. If you add up '07, '12, '22, and '55, you get '96. Similarly, the Caterpillar's two victories in this current century have been in 2003 and 2005. This is 2008. No one is willing to come out and say, “Ergo, we will once again win,” because that would be courting bad luck; it's enough simply to make the observation and allow everyone to conclude what they will.

Midway through the meal, a man comes over to our table and clasps Luigina's shoulders. She beams up at him, and even before she introduces him I've pegged him as her husband. They're a perfect match. He's no taller than she is, for one thing
—and
he's every bit as stylish, despite being completely bald (or maybe because of it; he makes it seem like a deliberate style choice). The two of them together are so impeccably dressed that the Los Angeles boys and I look like farmhands by comparison. Sloppy chic may be all the rage in America, but square it up against a couple of middle-aged Italians in tailored couture, and oh hell,
yeah
you know where the hot is.

As I shake hands with Giorgio, I recall that he is the society's president. It's a wonderful opportunity to make an impression on a contrada bigwig. But drink and exhaustion have shut down my wit and packed it up in a drawer for the night; all I can manage is to mumble something incoherent like “What an honor to meet me.”

The food is almost as intoxicating as the wine: a first
course of lasagne, a second of roasted chicken, and gelato for
dolce
. They eat very well in the contrada. At some point all this feasting combines with the sudden tsunami-size attack of jet lag to knock me flat on my backside. I make my excuses and, while the party's still in full swing, head back up the stairs, through the clubhouse, and onto the street, where lights, faces, and voices come at me all too fast—and then make my way to my B&B. Fortunately, it's just around the corner.