Seven Seasons in Siena (8 page)

I blink. Twice. And I feel a twinge of unaccountable irritation. He got me this job from Hell, and now he's bolting? All because he'd rather conduct his romance in a place where there aren't eighteen hundred people who all know him by name?

But this flash of annoyance passes as quickly as it came. I remind myself that this isn't about me; or rather it is, but it's about the extent to which I can submit, submerge, sublimate—give myself over to a higher cause, become a small part of something grander and greater.

Accordingly I give Rachel a wink and tell her to have a good time, and she beams me a dazzling smile in return. And then she and Dario—apparitions of the outside world, a place of caressing breezes and billowing hair to which I hope someday to return—go on their way and leave me to discover how much more bread I can slice before I sputter down the floor drain entirely.

But salvation is soon at hand; Duccio comes to me and, again in his impeccable English, says, “I think that is enough bread for tonight. Would you like to join us for dinner?”

“Thank you, yes,” I say, and I realize that I am in fact quite hungry. My extreme discomfort has distracted me from it, but the fragrant aromas of the lasagne and the chicken have been tantalizing me. I'd salivate if I had any bodily fluids left.

I give my face a quick rinse in the bathroom sink—what the hell, my entire head; it needs it—then towel dry and join the rest of the staff, who have already sat down at one of the prep tables and begun tucking in. Typically for Tuscans, they've done so in style, with a bottle of wine every few inches and a little vase of sunflowers in the middle.

Here's my reward, I tell myself; I've labored like a goat all night, now I'll be welcomed into the fold and invited to tell my story in my halting Italian. My passionate interest in these people will finally be repaid by their curiosity about me.

But no. They're not so easily diverted. They're tremendously polite, of course, and make certain I have plenty to eat and drink, and if I ask a question they answer it as fully as I could wish; but otherwise they go their own garrulous way, chattering back and forth at a velocity I can't even begin to follow, a babbling brook of conversation in which nary a consonant is allowed to impede the flow. Occasionally the entire table bursts into riotous laughter, and I really wish I knew why. I could ask, of course, but is there anything in the world glummer than the guy who needs to have the jokes explained?

Eventually I finish my meal and quietly rise and slip away. The others are now well into their wine and so don't notice me in time to protest; or perhaps they simply respect me enough to allow me the freedom to go.

I suppose my job here is completed, but despite the toll it's taken on me, I don't really feel I've done enough. I haven't bent sufficiently low, made adequate obeisance, to attract even a modicum of approbation from the brucaioli. I have to keep at it until someone, anyone, turns to me and … what? Offers a hand? Smiles in appreciation? Remembers my name?

I sigh and begin clearing tables. It's not really necessary; there's a whole complement of teenagers assigned to the task, and they're doing it with gusto (something I again find remarkable, as American teenagers would have to be threatened, possibly at gunpoint, into taking on this chore—and would then retaliate by performing it with a sullen attitude and half-assed results). All the same, I plunge in, choosing the far end of the garden to begin my operations, as the keen teens don't seem to be ranging this far afield.

It's a cool, quiet night, with the twinkling stars melding into the glimmering lights over the lawn; I can feel my skin start to dry, and it's a pleasant sensation. I pull my fazzoletto from my pocket and slip it back over my head, so I don't look out of place. It's a whole field of blue, green, and gold, tumbling down backs, draping over shoulders, tucked jauntily under chins. Leave it to a group of Italians to come up with a means of expressing civic pride through an accessory. Some of the fazzoletti are visibly threadbare, faded, and frayed; but this is highly respected, as it bespeaks a long and active life in the contrada.

Most of the diners have finished feasting—just a few stragglers are still idly nibbling from their gelato cups—and many are leaning back in their chairs, smoking or enjoying the dregs of the wine and passing the time in conversation. As before, the tables are self-segregated; middle-aged men have congregated
with other middle-aged men, matrons with matrons, adolescents with adolescents, and couples with very young children among others similarly blessed. Luigina seems to be the reigning queen of a whole group of smartly clad women who are arrayed around her, their well-shod legs crossed at the knee, coolly conversing while holding their cigarettes about an inch above their temples. Occasionally I spot a husband and wife together, but in such cases it seems inevitable that the woman has confidently invaded the male world by plonking herself among her spouse's colleagues; I don't see any man who has dared to seat himself at one of the ladies' tables.

As I collect the soiled plates, I feel an almost clandestine thrill; I'm moving among the crowd invisibly, observing the natives, mentally cataloguing them and committing snatches of their conversations to memory. They don't for a moment feel the searing intensity of my attention.

I wend my way close to the table where the Caterpillar officials are seated. Every contrada is like a mini–sovereign state, with its own governing body, constitution, and elected officers, the top honcho being the rettore, or rector (though the Caterpillar is the only one to so designate its chief executive; the Goose has a
governatore
and all the others a
priore
).

According to Dario, the current rector is the youngest the Caterpillar has ever had; so it doesn't take long to pick him out. He looks to be in no more than his very early forties; he has a head of loose auburn hair and a patient, attentive demeanor. Fabio Pacciani is his name. The man next to him—older, graying, with a bushy mustache and steely, formidable gaze—must be Giovanni Falciani, better known as Gianni, the
capitano
or captain. As I understand it, the rector's responsibility is the daily running of the contrada, while the captain's
is winning the Palio. No wonder the set of Gianni's jaw is so tight at the moment. This morning's extraction must have been less than optimal for him. Still, as I understand it, a good captain always has a backup plan. You can almost see the wheels spinning behind his glasses.

Suddenly Fabio looks up and his eyes meet mine. I'm frozen. I've been absolutely busted, staring dumbly at the big shots. After what seems an interminable moment, he smiles and nods. I smile back, then hurriedly resume my rounds.

If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have gone up and introduced myself. But I was too deeply immersed in the role I'd assumed for the day; I was a kitchen worker with an arm full of table trash—who was I to dare foist myself on capital-A Authority?

It takes me a few minutes to recall the bracing egalitarianism of the contrada; here there are no divisions based on education or occupation—the only credential that counts is that of contrada affiliation. Which I don't have by birth but am making a bid for by choice; and I'm here to prove I mean it.

And so, after engaging some of the other diners I encounter on my rounds—including an elderly couple who can barely breathe from laughing once they hear I'm from Chicago (“Chee-cah-go? … Really? It's really called that?”—I later learn that
Ci cago
is Italian for “I shit there”), I'm sufficiently emboldened to seize the moment when I see Fabio coming through the crowd, smiling benevolently and greeting all those who call out to him.

“Ciao, Fabio,” I say when he's within range. I extend my hand and add, “My name's Robert, I'm an American visitor.” He shakes my hand, all the while eyeing the big bag of trash I'm toting with me.

“We don't ask all our visitors to help clean up, I hope,” he says.

“I volunteered,” I assure him, and then … I can't think of anything else to say. After an awkward pause he gracefully takes the reins, thanking me for pitching in and hoping I have an enjoyable stay.

And then he's called away by another of his admiring constituency.

I bask for a moment in this important first impression I've made. I make a mental note for future reference: when striving to convey humility, clutching a sack of garbage is goddamn
golden
.

…

 
OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS I MAKE A POINT OF ATTENDING
every prova and pay close attention so that I might glean some bit of information I can then pass along to interested brucaioli—cheerfully ignoring the fact that I know nothing about horseflesh, the fantini, or, well, anything at all, really. It also ignores the fact that there are plenty of brucaioli on hand at these trials, so I'm scarcely needed as a source of intel.

As fate would have it, I miss my only real chance at realizing this plan, at a midday prova on my third day in town. I'm already in the Campo, having staked out a shady place from which to watch, when Dario calls me; he's forgotten to get the tickets for tomorrow's big dinner—the
cena della prova generale
, the dinner for the general trial, on the eve of the Palio. He's at home in Vagliagli and is unlikely to make it to Siena today; would I mind very much purchasing the tickets for him? I agree, of course, but I'm low on cash; I'll need to go to an ATM. There are still fifteen minutes or so till the trial starts, so I may as well do that now. I leave the Campo, withdraw the cash, and head back—only to find the piazza closed off. I didn't know they did that, and I'm not sure why they do. Even worse, the entrance is packed about eight deep with
those who have been denied access, so I can't even get close enough to plead my case.

Now there's a slight roar of approval from the crowd within, so I know the fantini must be riding out; and, eager to see them, I skitter up the street to an alley that leads under the bleachers and from there try to peer between the ankles of those seated over me. It's pretty much useless; I can get only fleeting glimpses of the track.

The race starts, and I can hear the thundering of the hooves as they pound by me—then a startled outcry from the crowd. “What?” I say aloud. “What happened? What what what?” My head darts like a salamander's between pants legs and panty hose, but I can't make anything out. It's a pretty decent metaphor for my current existential condition: on the outside, peering in, certain of something remarkable just beyond but unable to see much of it.

Later I'll discover that the startled outcry was due to the Ram's horse slipping. The soft turf, still holding the moisture of a recent rainfall, is blamed. I'll learn all this from reading the front-page headlines of the Sienese dailies on display at the news vendors. From this point on, Palio news will consume pretty much all their coverage. If there's a war or a plague or a flood or a terrorist attack elsewhere in the world … well, I'll hear about it on August 17.

At that night's contrada dinner I'm once again paired up with Joshua, but by now I'm actually happy to see him. He and I compare notes on how difficult it is to break through the wall of Sienese reserve. They're a lovely people, and we both adore them, but they're invincibly self-contained. It's one of the things that make them so attractive to me; that's the paradox right there.

The following day I awaken to a steady rain. In spite of this I set out for the Campo to watch the prova; but it's canceled due to weather, leaving me with nothing to do.

When the skies clear in early afternoon, Dario calls and arranges to meet in Società L'Alba. I find him at the bar, of course, and he treats me to a prosecco. I give him the tickets for the dinner, and we both look dubiously at the sky, which glowers threateningly, and wonder whether it will actually take place. The tables are all set up and are covered with plastic sheeting to keep them dry till the appointed time; but that's presuming the appointed time will be any drier.

“It wouldn't surprise me if the dinner was called off,” he says, a bit dispiritingly. “This is what we call a Quattro Verdi Palio—because four of the participating contrade have green among their colors. Every time there's a Quattro Verdi, it brings a chain of bad luck.” Suddenly I recall the Ram horse slipping in yesterday's prova, which I mention to Dario. Of course he's already heard of it, and he nods in confirmation. “Yes, and before that, there was the sad death of the young man of the Tower. But wait. There will be other misfortunes, both trivial and tragic.”

As if on cue, I've no sooner returned to my room at the San Francesco than the sky opens like a piñata and an epic storm commences. I pass the hours boning up on Sienese history, but the rain outside my window doesn't lessen in intensity. Eventually it becomes apparent that the
cena
will have to be called off. I'm crestfallen; the dinner five years ago was one of the most joyous nights of my life. But the Caterpillar aren't suffering alone; every other contrada in the city hosts an enormous outdoor dinner for all its members and guests and will thus be equally inconvenienced. But at least they can all
hunker down in the comfort of their own homes; I'm stuck at the B&B and have nothing in the way of alternative plans. I'll probably end up darting through the rain for a
panino
, which I'll eat in my room while seated cross-legged on the bed, watching a movie on my laptop.