The Goddess Fortuna
Time in Siena is reckoned by the Palio. Trips, even important ones, are
postponed until after a Palio, or made hurriedly before. In the family
Bible, births and deaths are often recorded by it; this person was born
on the eve of the Palio of July, 1939; that one died during the August
Palio of 1880.
Giorgio, too, began counting time by the Palio. In between, he felt
himself in a vacuum. There seemed no real stuff and substance to
living. He remembered an incident when he was a small boy. He was
watching a veterinarian standing over a sick horse, and the man had
said, "This beast I do not pronounce dead; it exists in a state of
suspended animation." Then with a long needle the doctor injected
medicine into the horse's heart, and it began to breathe, and to live
again. The Palio was a stimulant, just like that. Even the hopes dashed
and the despair were easier to endure than the dull ticking of time
between.
Signor Ramalli kept Giorgio on for the winter, but often on Sundays
he was allowed to go to Monticello. At home one evening, with the cat
purring on his shoulder and Emilio and Teria looking on, he started
work on his statue of Farfalla. It was strange how he remembered
everything about her, even to the length of her mane and tail. As he
worked, he found himself putting a shapeless lump on her back. He
pinched and pressed, adding clay here, taking it off there, until the
lump began to take form.
"What!" Emilio exclaimed, his eyes round in curiosity. "What are you
making there! A fantino? Is it you?"
Studying it, the mother said, "Why tear out your heart in an aching for
the Palio? Some of us are meant to dress the table for the others to
eat. They are blessed, too."
Giorgio managed a smile, but the longing for the Palio persisted.
In the slow months that followed, he sometimes wished he had never
listened to the Umbrella Man. But deep inside he knew he did not mean
it; he was glad he had the next Palio to think of. The next one would
be different. He would be in it, and the horse he rode would be an
Arabian, almost white. And all the rest of his life the Palios would
come, year after year, one wild race for glory after another.
The next Palio was different indeed. The contest really began on the
road where the weasely groom and Giorgio waged their continual warfare.
Grimy and sweating, Giorgio was trying one day to teach a mare to lead
with either her right foreleg or her left when going into a canter.
Unless she could take a curve on the correct lead, her legs might cross
and she could fall, endangering herself and everyone on the course.
Farfalla, with her groom sitting smug and superior, was executing a
series of perfect half-turns down the center of the road. Every time
their paths crossed, the man sniped at Giorgio with a sharp insult.
"Hey, you! To teach a donkey, is necessary the teacher is less donkey
than the donkey. Ha! Ha!"
Giorgio usually ignored the quips and jibes, but this one cut deep
because it was overheard by two important-looking men beckoning him
to the side of the road. One, a dignified man with balding head,
introduced himself as Signor de Santi, an attorney, and captain of the
Contrada Nicchio, the Shell.
The other, towering and magnificent in his blue uniform, was Giorgio's
friend, the Chief-of-the-Guards. In an easy, knowing way the Chief took
hold of the mare's bridle and looked up at the boy's dirt-streaked
face. He smiled as if he had heard the taunt but ignored it. "Giorgio!"
he exclaimed, "we come with a message for you."
He turned to the Captain, who now cleared his throat as if he were
about to address a jury. "We of the Shell," he intoned, "have sought a
fantino raised in our own contrada, but," he cleared his throat again,
"such a one cannot be found. Here am I, therefore, wandering over the
countryside, seeking."
Giorgio was struck dumb by the importance of the two men, and
embarrassed by his own appearance. Hastily, he wiped his face on his
sleeve and with his fingers combed his hair.
The Captain boomed on. "Seeing you with your stained shirt and
disordered hair makes me think of the words of Angelo Mentoni, who
said, 'In order to make a fantino for the Palio, three requisites are
needed--age, liver, and misery.' Age you have not; of your liver I know
not; but misery you have--in a manner only too evident!"
Giorgio blushed, then began to shake all over in anticipation. Trees
went spinning before his eyes, the sky tilted, and the men's faces swam
before him as if they were under water. He knew that out of respect he
should dismount, but in his dizzy excitement he might fall sprawling at
their feet.
"I am of the opinion," the Captain continued, "that you are a boy
of good future and will fight earnestly to win. Unfortunately, we
are not a contrada of great wealth. However, in the event of victory
you will be rewarded in proportion to our limited means." He coughed
apologetically. "You must realize, boy, that on our part this is a
dangerous risk. Your ... ah ... smallness, while an advantage when
riding in the provincial races, is no advantage at all on a cobblestone
course where riders sit bareback."
Giorgio wanted to shout: "Capitano! Chief-of-the-Guards! I will take
the risk. I will ride for no pay at all! I will pay you if I can! I
will save my fare to Monticello!" Then suddenly came the remembrance of
home--of the sausage hanging from the ceiling and the pieces of bread
rubbed against it for flavor, and he gulped. He tried to say, "Signor
de Santi, I am honored deeply to ride in the Palio for your contrada,"
but the words stuck in his throat.
The Captain took the silence for consent. "Good!" he said, "you shall
be the fantino of the Shell for the Palio of July the second. You
shall present yourself at my study on the morning when the horses are
assigned." He reached up, grasping Giorgio's hand, wringing it until it
hurt. Then the Chief did the same, and their eyes met in the complete
understanding of one horseman for another.
For the first time in his life Giorgio galloped all the way back. He
brought his mount in blowing and lathered, a thing he had never done
before. Quickly he sloshed water over her. He scraped off the excess.
He put a blanket on her. He walked her cool. Then he tried to walk
himself cool, up and down the Via Fontebranda, but his feet barely
touched the cobblestones. He could not walk; he paced, he ran, he
galloped. He felt like some god of long ago, like Mercury skimming the
clouds.
That evening when Signor Ramalli heard Giorgio's news, his face lighted
in pleasure. "If this honor had come to my own flesh and blood," he
said, "I could not be more glad. It is honor indeed that the Captain
comes to you so long before the assignment of the horses. He must
consider you able to handle any mount."
Later, in the stillness of night, Giorgio wrote to his father and
mother. "Mamma and Babbo," he carefully formed the letters, "to you I
will dedicate my first Palio. And to Farfalla."
Not for one instant did he doubt that Farfalla would be chosen to run.
Nor that in the drawing when the horses are assigned to the various
contradas, the Contrada of Nicchio, the Shell, would win her. "It _has_
to be," he told himself.
A month later, at the trials, Giorgio watched without breathing as
Farfalla nearly took a spill at the starting rope but caught stride
and finished fourth. In Giorgio's mind his arch enemy, the groom who
rode her, was entirely to blame for the bad start. But even so, she was
among the ten chosen.
Giorgio sighed in relief. This, he felt, was the first step toward his
goal, and certain proof that he would ride her in the Palio. Was she
not Bianca's successor? Were not their life threads destined to come
together?
After the trials the very air of the Piazza seemed charged with
intolerable suspense. The drawing was at hand. The hour was
ten-thirty, the sun striking hot on the cobblestones. Still rankling
over the clumsiness of Farfalla's groom, Giorgio joined the throng
gathering in front of the Palazzo Pubblico.
Everything was beginning to happen. Ten _barbarescos_ or official
grooms, in the brilliant costumes of their contradas, were taking
their places before a raised platform. Ten trumpeters were mounting
the steps, lining up at the front edge, ready to blow on their silver
trumpets. The Mayor and the captains were seating themselves at a long
table.
The stage was set. Two tall urns were already placed far apart on the
table. Within their opaque beauty they held the fate of the drawing--in
one the names of the contradas, in the other the numbers of the horses.
And against the Palace wall two racks were hung, where everyone could
plainly see them; they were empty, waiting for the matched names and
numbers.
Seemingly the whole town was on hand, each person tense, each praying
that his contrada would draw the best horse. Already the ten were
rated ... this one for speed, that one for endurance. Giorgio listened
to what people were saying.
"Ah, Belfiore is a veteran of many Palios. She knows those sharp curves
like the corners of her stall!"
"Oh, ho! Do not overlook Ravi, the little black gelding."
"If Bruco, the Caterpillar, does not draw a good horse," said a man
with a cracked voice, "I will go to the country."
"Then go!" The jeers were ribald. "In thirty years your Bruco does not
win the Palio."
"Si, si," taunted a gleeful young voice. "Bruco wears the grandmother's
cap." And everyone took up the singing cry: "Bruco wears the
grandmother's cap! Bruco wears the grandmother's cap!"
It was stilled only by the trumpeters blasting forth on their silver
horns. Then a hushed silence as two small pages stepped forward to the
center of the stage. In military precision they turned smartly on their
heels. One marched to the urn at the right end of the table, and the
other to the urn at the left. While everyone watched, breathless, they
took from each urn a wooden capsule and with a deep bow presented it to
the Mayor.
The Mayor's hands shook violently as he opened the first capsule,
unrolled a white slip of paper, and held it high for the crowd to see.
"Number six!" Every voice roared as one voice.
Quick as a wink, a man scrambled up a ladder and slid a number 6 into
the top space of one rack.
Giorgio glanced into the corral nearby, where the mare Belfiore wore a
number 6 beneath her ear.
The crowd went wild. "Give us Belfiore!" they cried. "Give us Belfiore!"
Then silence clamped down as the Mayor opened the second capsule and
held up the paper. Those nearby read it, and almost before their
lips formed the name, the man on the ladder slid the board marked
"Porcupine" into the rack beside number six.
The Porcupines were beside themselves with joy. "Already we have won!"
they shouted.
Giorgio felt a tightening of his chest. He began to know fear. Why had
he been so sure the Nicchio would draw Farfalla? With each capsule
opened, fresh beads of sweat rolled down his back. He could feel his
shirt cling damply to him. He listened to the pairing in an agony of
suspense.
"Ravi to the Caterpillar."
"Mitzi to the Goose."
"Saró non saró to the Tower."
"Anita to the Panther."
"Goia to the Snail."
"Lirio to the Wave."
"Tarantella to the Turtle."
"Fontegiusta to the Unicorn."
Only two contradas left; only two horses left! And now the last spaces
in the racks filling in, irrevocably:
"Farfalla to the Forest."
"Turbolento to Nicchio, the Shell."
Giorgio was too stunned to move. In minutes, the Goddess Fortuna had
knocked down his hopes as if they were toy blocks. He watched the
members of the Forest lead Farfalla away to their stable. And he let
the people of the Shell push him along with them to surround the dark
bay, Turbolento. He was glad for the jostling crowd, and the deafening
noise--the happy shrieks, and the wails of the disappointed ones. He
wanted to wail, too, but Captain de Santi had turned to him, his face
alight with joy. Above the din he introduced four strapping young men.
"Your bodyguard," he shouted. "They will protect you from harm, and us
from interference. Wherever you go, from one dawn to the next, they
will be with you."
There was a look so desolate on the boy's face that the Captain gripped
his shoulder. "Have you nothing to say? Nothing at all? Are you not
happy?"
Numb, drenched in misery, Giorgio heard his long-rehearsed speech come
out at last: "Capitano, I am honored deeply to ride for your contrada."