Seven Seasons in Siena (9 page)

I'm rescued from this sad fate by Dario, who calls and tells me to pack a bag; I'll dine with him and Rachel in his village, then spend the night at his house.

Dario lives in a small town in Chianti called Vagliagli, a name that seems to defeat any English speaker who attempts to pronounce it. (It's perfectly simple, really: val-YAL-yee. It means “valley of garlic.”) Despite this, it's pretty much every American's fantasy of a town in Chianti; it's nestled in a little clutch of hills, like the crook of two plump arms, and its quiet streets are amicably patrolled by old women in shawls whose eagle eyes miss nothing that occurs on their watch. They probably know of my arrival in town before I've even gotten out of Dario's van.

We go for a drink at the village pub, Bar San Cristoforo, run by a pleasant woman named Maria who seems actually to remember me from five years ago. Rachel is already there, with a couple of American expatriates, Sue and Kip, each of whom has a house in Umbria; they've come down just for the Palio, at Dario's encouragement. I realize that these are likely the people I'd have been seated with at the contrada dinner, and suddenly it seems like I've salvaged perhaps a little of that loss. I don't even mind that I'm once again spending a whole night chatting with Americans; after the long, dreary day I've had, I'm happy to be talking to anyone.

We move on to dinner at the village's very fine restaurant, Osteria L'Antico Detto, run by an inimitable woman named
Giovanna, who talks so fast you wonder where she fits a breath in. The meal is very fine (I have a wild boar pasta), and a bottle of wine boosts our spirits; and at a certain point Dario turns to me and says, “If you wish to see a Caterpillar victory tomorrow, Rob, you should make some offering to the fates to secure it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Promise to make some sacrifice or undertake some great endeavor, should the Bruco win.”

“Fine, as long as it doesn't involve slicing any more bread. Take a look at that blister,” I add, displaying my wounded hand to Sue, who is gracious enough to feign keen interest.

“No, seriously,” Dario insists. “You ought to do it.”

It's becoming clear that he's in earnest about this. “Do … what, exactly? What kind of thing are we talking about?”

He considers this a moment. “Well, you can make a vow that, if the contrada is victorious, you will walk from Vagliagli to Siena.”

“I could do that!” I exclaim. “Wait … how far is that exactly?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I'm just curious.”

He extends his wineglass across the table. “Be bold. Just make the vow.”

I take up my own glass and clang it against his; the resultant tone is as resonant as a gong.
“Lo giuro,”
I say. “I swear it. If the Bruco wins tomorrow, I'll walk from Vagliagli to Siena.”

And just like that, I'm bound by oath.

…

 
THE NEXT DAY, I GET BACK TO MY ROOM AT THE SAN
Francesco in time to shower, shave, and change clothes. Then I head out to the Società, hoping to get a glimpse of Dario—he's being done up in medieval dress, as he'll be marching in the four-hour historical procession that precedes the Palio. But the place is so thick with brucaioli, I can barely get through the door.

The entire city seems to have shifted into a different mode of existence; everything's sharper, more vibrant, more urgent. The streets are almost choked with people, but no one is lingering, no one strolls; everyone is in breathless motion, zinging about like electrons. It's almost a relief when I return to Enoteca I Terzi for lunch with Rachel, Sue, and Kip. Again: spending time with Americans. But I'm discovering to my dismay that getting close to the Sienese is more difficult than I'd ever thought, especially today. There's something about them that's almost radioactive. When they look straight at you, their eyes burn a hole in your skull.

Yet there's a lightness to the atmosphere, a kind of high fluttering in the air. Expectation is tinged with joy; these people are hair trigger today, sure, but not in the way that might
snap into violence. It's more as though they're on the brink of some kind of rapturous communion—like a citywide flash mob.

Lunch is perfect; in atonement for the richness of last night's feast, I have a simple plate of linguine dressed with an arugula pesto—and of course a glass of wine, to fortify myself for the ordeal ahead. Because though my American friends have all got seats in the bleachers, I've chosen this year to watch the race as the natives do: from the teeming, swarming mass in the actual Campo.

My idea is to locate the spot where the Caterpillars are congregated and join them. In theory this should be easy enough; all I have to do is look for the blue, green, and gold fazzoletti around their necks. But once I get into the crowd, the various colors of all the various contrade merge into a kind of pointillist smear. Occasionally I think I spot a cluster of brucaioli at a distance; but when I reach the spot at which I saw them, they've dissolved, like a mirage. Finally I do come upon a large grouping—but they're all twentysomethings, more than half my age. I feel ridiculous intruding on them this way, so I melt back into the crowd, once more a man alone in a multitude. (Later I'll learn that many of the adults in the contrada don't watch the race at all; it's just too much for them. They linger in the streets and fret and worry and pray and wait for word of the result to reach them—or pace the portico of the Duomo, biting their nails, their heads hung low.)

A sudden wave of quietude sweeps over the crowd—a stirring of alertness. This must mean it's time for the members of the Carabinieri to initiate the day's proceedings with their traditional circuit of the track. The people obviously love this
because they erupt in cheers when the impeccably tailored police officers (in uniforms designed by Giorgio Armani) trot out and take a lap in high-stepping dressage style—after which they launch into a furious gallop, swords drawn before them. The sheer speed drives the crowd into a frenzy. But today, something happens; the daredevil velocity claims a victim. A horse falls—within minutes, word sweeps through the crowd that it's broken its leg. (Later we'll learn that his rider only narrowly escaped being impaled on his own sword.) It's very, very seldom—in fact, it's a statistical rarity—that a horse of any kind is injured in any part of the Palio celebrations. Instantly I think to myself, Quattro Verdi. Another in the string of misfortunes.

The horse will have to be destroyed, but there seems no question of doing so in front of these assembled thousands. A truck is called in to haul the poor beast away to its doom. During the time it takes the vehicle to arrive, there's a pall over the crowd—or most of us, anyway. To my astonishment, a few dozen people raise their cellphones over their heads, to snap photos of the horse in its agony. This makes me nearly dizzy with rage; all I can do, to balance the scales, is to turn my back on the whole scene—to give the creature, to the small extent I can, his final few moments of dignity.

When the track is at long last cleared again, a gust of wind comes up and stirs the hair and collars of those of us standing in the piazza. It's as though Fate is telling us that the curse of the Quattro Verdi is sufficiently fulfilled and the Palio may proceed without incident.

The historical procession begins. As a brass band plays and the bell in the Torre del Mangia peals endlessly, each of the contrade sends out a delegation in medieval dress, including
two alfieri to perform dizzying feats of daring with their contrada's banners—twirling them, leaping over them, tossing them high in the air and catching them with a single hand behind their backs. (It's the alfieri who are chiefly responsible for winning the award for most elegant contrada.) The fantino is there as well, on horseback, heroically garbed; and his mount for the race follows, led by the barbaresco. After all seventeen contrade have entered the piazza, they're followed by other delegations, including a small one representing ancient contrade that are now extinct (including the Lion, the Viper, the Bear, the Strong Sword, the Oak, and the Rooster). The procession concludes with an ox-drawn cart on which is mounted the drappellone, the Palio banner—which, in this case, is a highly stylized depiction of the track (designed by one Mario Ceroli) with the Palazzo Pubblico in the background; the earth is shown as stark white, and a herd of riderless black horses thunders around its curve—while silhouetted arms reach up toward them in ecstasy. The Madonna and Child loom over all, flanked by a star field of the racing contrade's symbols. It's undeniably striking, but I wonder if I'm the only one who notices the horses are running the wrong way: counterclockwise instead of clockwise.

When viewed from the bleachers, the procession is spectacular; it's less so, I now discover, from the interior of the Campo. The gently scalloped expanse of stone beneath us allows the crowd easily to see horses and riders who pass on the perimeter, but people marching on their own power are often obscured. I see the various banners fly into the air, but not the alfieri who hurl them, and I never do spot Dario.

The procession also moves at a very slow pace—I won't call it a crawl, but the word does flit across my mind now and
then as I work to hold my stance in the overpowering heat. During the four hours that the procession requires, the sun slowly recedes, so that the area of available shade on the Campo increases, allowing the crowd to expand just a bit; but in these sardinelike conditions, even that very little is an inexpressible relief.

The fantini ride out from the Palazzo Pubblico, and whatever reaction the crowd has given up to now pales before the uproar of excitement and delight. Each jockey pauses at the gate to take a
nerbo
—the traditional riding crop made, so I understand, from dried calf's penis—and then proceeds to the starting line, the
mossa
. Here they're assigned the order in which they must line up, from the inside of the track on out: the Panther, Ram, Goose, Tower, Shell, Forest, Caterpillar, Tortoise, Eagle, and finally Dragon—this last assignment being the
rincorsa
, which is considered the worst position from the standpoint of winning but which carries with it a signal advantage. The race doesn't begin until the rincorsa approaches the mossa, so he can hold off until his ally is well situated—or his enemy poorly so.

The lineup at the mossa always takes a hellaciously long time, as unlike at traditional racetracks, here there are no starting compartments that separate the horses from their immediate neighbors. They have to align themselves on their own, and there's jostling, bumping, falling out of line—and, inevitably, several fantini break away for furtive last-minute consultations with the rincorsa and with one another, negotiating, exchanging offers, making promises. They can't be too blatant about it, of course, though everybody knows that's what's going on; some degree of stealth must be observed, or
the crowd will get ugly—this being theater as much as anything else.

On this particular occasion, the entire process takes a nerve-shattering length of time—more than an hour and a half of failed attempts to draw up in formation—and in fact there are
three
separate false starts. The crowd around me is shrieking its frustration; every time the riders abandon an attempt to line up and drop back from the mossa, there's a murderous groan and threats and invective hurled across the length of the Campo that I'm actually glad I don't understand.

But eventually—finally—there's a moment of perfect accord; the Dragon breaks into a gallop; the mossa drops; the horses burst into motion, and a sound that isn't even human rises up from the piazza; it's as if suddenly the entire planet is made of hornets. All the air in the Campo, which had seemed so compressed, now explodes, like a burst balloon.

The riders are virtually flying; it's hard to keep a fix on them—like trying to watch the wind. The Goose, the Dragon, the Ram, and the Panther immediately take the first four spots, with the Caterpillar lost in the clot of those trailing behind. Then at the turn called the Casato, the fantino of the Dragon is hurled from his horse. Never mind—the horse can still win without him and appears actually capable of doing so, as it moves into second place after the Goose—and holds steady into the second lap. But hey—who's that behind him? … Green … blue … gold … it's Gingillo and Elisir for the Caterpillar! Where'd they come from? Never mind, we're suddenly in third place! No, hold on a minute—there's another bit of shuffling at San Martino—I can't really see what's going on—and by the time I get a decent view again,
Caterpillar is right on Goose's tail. This is turning out to be a
race
.

Third lap—Goose holds on to its lead; but Caterpillar creeps up—doggedly—unrelentingly—