The Eighth Day (15 page)

“Like the Dragon.”

“Yes, like Drago. There is a Panther, too, and a Wolf, but it isn’t all what you would expect. I mean, I know you have these . . .
symbols
in the States for your sports teams, but they are for the most part . . . mmmmm . . . ferocious creatures. Powerful. Fast. Violent. But here it isn’t like that.” A musical giggle. “Not at all.”

“Why not? What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s a Goose, a Snail and a Wave, a Forest. Even a Caterpillar.” She giggled again, and it occurred to him that she was feeling the wine. “And not even a pretty one, like the fellow in
Alice in Wonderland
. No stripes or fanciful whiskers. Just a green tomato worm.”

“Get out of here.”

She admonished him, tapped his bicep with one perfectly manicured finger. “You’ll see. Anyway, the loyalty to the neighborhood is a lifelong thing. Once a Snail, always a Snail—and the same goes for the others. You can marry outside your
contrada
, but you never give up your allegiance.”

“What about you?” Danny asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah, what
contrada
are you?”

That giggle again. Then, “Mmmmn . . . how do you say? Uptown.” She laughed. And he did, too.

After checking out some early Michelangelos in the Piccolomini Chapel, they returned outside to find the city in shadow, the sun a pink glow in the western hills. “Let’s go to the Campo,” Paulina suggested, and, taking Danny by the hand, led him through a maze of passageways and little streets.

“We’re in Onda territory,” Paulina confided. “The Wave. You see?”

Indeed. Onda flags hung from every balcony, rippling bars of white and royal blue, the colors alternating, one on top of the other. The motif was everywhere, emblazoned on planters, painted on doors, carved into the very foundation stones of the buildings around them. Ahead of them, a streetlight flickered on, and Danny laughed when he saw that the fixture was in the shape of a fish—a stylized fish dancing on stylized waves.

“Do you know,” Paulina asked, “that sociologists come from all over the world to study the
contrada
system? It’s true! They say, long ago, the
contrade
were ancient tribes. And these tribes, they are like big families. Everyone is a cousin, you know? So they take care of each other. But outside the
contrada
? Always, they fight. Now, I think, these rivalries are what hold the city together.”

They walked through a small square where children with Palio scarves were playing soccer with a red rubber ball.

“What about the race itself?” he asked.

“It’s twice a year,” she told him. “The same dates, no matter if it’s the weekend. July second and August sixteenth. And not all the
contrade
compete in both. There is only room for eleven. So, in July it’s the six who didn’t run in August the year before—plus another five they pick by drawing lots. Then, in August, it’s the six who didn’t compete in July, plus a second drawing for the other five places.”

“So it’s what? A pageant? Or an honest-to-god race?”

“It’s not just for show, that’s for sure. Horses die. Sometimes jockeys. Even the occasional spectator.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. The
contrade
take it very seriously. This has been happening for a thousand years. It’s a whole week of festivities, yes, that’s true. A spectacle. You’ll see—tonight is the final evening before the battle, so it’s always the most extravagant. Anyway, there are days and nights of medieval pageantry, singing and flag throwing—this part is all quite civilized. Then, when the cannon starts the race . . . well, it’s as
brutal
as it is corrupt. You’ll see tomorrow. Three times around the Campo, bareback, with fifty thousand people in the middle of it all, roaring as the horses fly past. It only lasts a minute and a half.”

“Why do you say it’s corrupt?”

She shrugged. “It’s part of the competition. Anything goes. Everything’s allowed. Most of the jockeys come from the Maremma, and they’re good with the whip—though they use it mostly on each other instead of the horses. Some of the horses are drugged, and every year it seems like one or two of them are killed in the San Martino turn—which is padded but impossible nevertheless.” She paused and then went on. “And, of course, the whole thing is fixed. It’s always fixed, although the fix doesn’t always work because the race is so chaotic. One jockey is paid to lose—a second is paid to get in the way of a third. Still, it’s up to the horses in the end—because they don’t need a rider to win.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “It’s not the Kentucky Derby. Half the jockeys are knocked off or thrown off in the turns. It’s the horse who finishes first that wins. So, in the end, the rider doesn’t really matter.”

“Who won in July?”

She frowned. “Not Pavone.” She thought for a moment. “Istrice, I think.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “The Ostrich?”

She smiled, shook her head. “The Porcupine.”

They turned right, walked down a very narrow street, and Paulina restrained him with a hand on his arm to point out that the flags and decorative features had changed. The flags were now turquoise and gold, and visible everywhere was the insignia of the Peacock, its tail feathers fanned out. “We’re in Pavone territory now,” she said. “It’s one of the central
contrade
.”

A moment later she pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said. “Listen.”

He cocked his head and then heard it: a vast subdued hum of human conversation, with the sharper counterpoint of cutlery, the chink of plates and glasses. Behind the hum, faint melodies rose and fell. He heard the thin blare of trumpets.

“Magic, isn’t it?” Paulina asked.

They resumed walking. Paulina stumbled and grabbed his arm, leaned into him. The hot air carried her scent and he noticed the faint gleam of perspiration on her face, the damp tendrils of hair on her brow. Turning a corner, they stepped through the arch of a narrow arcade and, in an instant, were inundated by a waterfall of noise.

The Campo.

Ringed with mansions older than America, the piazza was paved in the city’s distinctive brown stone—the “burnt sienna” of a million palettes. At the moment, the entire piazza was the site of a vast alfresco banquet. Perspiring waiters rushed back and forth, carrying trays of pasta, fish, and game to a couple hundred of fifty-foot-long banquet tables packed with thousands of festive Sienese. Peculiar and beautiful flags were everywhere, standing on every table, hanging from every balcony.

Ancient songs hung in the air, and the sound of trumpets rose and fell. Taking a step backward, Danny noticed for the first time that he was standing on a makeshift racetrack. Squares of inverted turf had been laid down around the perimeter of the Campo, covering its time-worn stones.

Paulina led him to an area reserved for the Pavone
contrada
, where hundreds of people were feasting at a score of tables, each of which was covered in gold cloth. Pennants and scarves and peacock feathers made it clear whose turf it was. Paulina gestured to an umber palace that rose up in the darkness behind the tables. “The Palazzo di Pavone,” she said. “We’ll be there tomorrow. It’s a fantastic view.”

Danny gazed up at the long and sinuous balconies, where peacocks strolled amid a forest of potted palms. “What about tonight?” he asked. “I thought I was supposed to see Belzer.”

She pouted in apology. “I spoke with him earlier. He’s late getting in, but he didn’t want you to miss all the fun. He said he’d see you tomorrow.” Seeing Danny’s disappointment, Paulina tilted her head and pursed her full lips into an even more exaggerated pout. “I’m not good-enough company?”

“It’s not—”

She took his hand and pulled him. “Come on. We’re at table three.”

Though he hadn’t given a thought to dinner, he realized that he was hungry—and it was a good thing, because the food came at him in waves. There seemed to be an endless number of courses, each paired to its own wine. Everything was delicious, and the energy in the Campo was nothing less than electrifying. As the banquet progressed, a fanfare of trumpets sounded. Conversation dwindled, a hush fell over the crowd, then a roar of applause shot into the air as a parade of men and women in medieval garb came into the square through one of its arched entrances. In measured steps they advanced along a wide path that lay between the tables. A burst of shouting and singing celebrated the arrival of each
contrada
’s contingent, bearing huge banners to the center of the square, where a makeshift stage stood ringed with torches. When the Pavone contingent reached the middle of the Campo, a sea of banqueters around Danny stood as one and began to sing, slowly waving little flags emblazoned with peacocks. Confetti flew from the balconies behind them, a blizzard of gold and azure that painted the crowd in glitter.

It was too noisy to engage in conversation with anyone but immediate tablemates—and the only one Danny could talk to was Paulina. No one else seemed to speak English. She translated for him, and although this was so awkward it hardly seemed worthwhile, when she left to visit friends at other tables he felt abandoned. All he could do with his tablemates was return their friendly smiles and lift his glass when they said things like
Buona fortuna
and
Victoria a Pavone!—
which they did quite often. By the time they got to the coffee and
vin santo
, and then to the
grappa
, it was after eleven.

He wanted to make his excuses, but at the moment Paulina was thirty feet away, at the head of the table, talking animatedly to an elegant gray-haired man. She glanced up, caught Danny’s eye, volleyed a smile.

Danny tapped his watch, gave her a nonchalant wave, and stood up. The Campo swayed.
Whoa . . . “Grazie tutto,”
he called out,
“grazie mille!”
His Italian was really quite good, he decided.
“Arrivederci, mon amici!”
His tablemates laughed and raised their glasses.

“Danny,” Paulina said, arriving at his side and entwining her arm in his. “I didn’t know you spoke Italian!”

“Neither did I,” he mumbled.

“But where are you going?”

“Hotel.” He began shaking hands with people at the table.

“Already? But it’s not even midnight.”

He looked at her. “I’m a little . . . tired.”

She giggled. “I think you’re a little . . . drunk.”

He thought about it for a moment. “That’s possible,” he replied, nodding with exaggerated seriousness.

“Well, all right,” she said, taking a last sip of her
vin santo
. “Let’s go!”

Danny shook his head. “I’ll get a taxi.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m supposed to be looking after you. And, anyway, you’ll never get a taxi tonight. It’s impossible.”

They walked back to where the car was parked. Danny was concentrating on the cobblestones, which required a bit of navigation, while Paulina wobbled along on her high heels, stumbling into him once or twice, laughing, whispering, touching his arm, talking. Her reckless giggle floated above them.

Then they were in the Lancia, roaring up the hill toward the hotel. Paulina put a CD into the player and Thelonious Monk spilled over them. Danny was thinking what a beautiful night it was, thinking what a beautiful girl she was, when her hand grazed his thigh. He didn’t think it was an accident.

He was doing his best to be faithful, he really was, but it wasn’t easy. Still, he was determined to get it right, because Caleigh was the one—he was sure of it. And she’d walk if he cheated on her, because fidelity meant
everything
to her. She’d made that clear from the start.

A few drops of rain spattered onto the windshield, not enough for Paulina to turn on the wipers. The drops clung to the glass like liquid jewels, lit up by the glow of oncoming headlights. Paulina was talking about the last time she’d visited the States—how everything was supersized. “Houses, cars, Happy Meals. Everything!”

Danny nodded in agreement and forced his eyes away from her legs. By then, he’d memorized them as thoroughly as his ABCs.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me what?”

“Are you supersized, too?”

His jaw dropped.
I’ve really had too much to drink,
he thought. Because she couldn’t mean what he thought she meant. It had to be an English-as-a-second-language thing. “No,” he said, “I’m a little taller than average, that’s all.”

She laughed, and her hand brushed his thigh again as she downshifted through a curve.

She’d never know,
Danny told himself, thinking of Caleigh. She was thousands of miles away, and the women’s paths would never cross, not in a million years. His eyes dropped to Paulina’s knees and to the creamy flesh above them.

Whatcha gonna do, boy?
Whatcha gonna do?

He laughed to himself and looked away.

“Why do you laugh?” Paulina asked.

Danny shook his head. “I was thinking of an album I used to listen to.”

“Which one?”

“
Bat out of Hell
.”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know it,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s not important.” For a moment he considered telling her about the album and, in particular, the song from which the lines came: “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.”
Better not,
he thought.

The thing was: It didn’t really matter if Caleigh never knew. That wasn’t the point. The point was not to cheat, not to lie. He’d been faithful to her for almost a year, now, and it was better this way. Secrets poisoned a relationship, and other women were like land mines—you never knew when one of them was going to go off.

Her hand rested lightly on his knee.
Maybe I’m too drunk to know right from wrong,
he hoped.

Suddenly the hotel loomed before them as the Lancia thundered into the Scacciapensieri’s courtyard. Killing the engine, she unfolded her legs and climbed from the car. Then she tossed the keys to the bellman and, taking Danny’s arm, put her head against his shoulder. Together they walked into the lobby and took the elevator to the third floor.