At the Curve of San Martino
In spite of his disappointment, Giorgio's spirits began to rise with
each passing hour. Even if he could not ride Farfalla in the Palio, he
was no longer an outcast. He was a participant! And for a week at least
he would be free of the weasel of a groom with his sly grin and razor
tongue.
That same day of the drawing, and for three successive days, the
rehearsal races were held. They were called _Provas_, but Giorgio
failed to see that they proved anything.
In the first one he was eager to make a good showing for the Shell,
and he lifted Turbolento up over the starting rope before it actually
touched the track. In fact, he was well in the lead when he noticed
that none of the other fantinos were urging their mounts. They made a
great to-do with flapping elbows and wild yelling, but anyone could see
they were intent on concealing their mounts' true ability.
Giorgio followed their cue. Besides, after the first spurt, he sensed
that he might have trouble with Turbolento. Although not new to racing,
the horse was accustomed to the tracks in the provinces. The races
there were run counterclockwise, while here in the Piazza del Campo the
running went clockwise. It would take patient control of Turbolento's
speed and of his leads to prevent his switching at the turns. Before
Giorgio had gone once around the Piazza, he understood the real purpose
of the Prova. Horses and riders had to get acquainted three ways--with
each other, with the dangerous slopes and curves, and with the opposite
way of running. No wonder the rehearsal races were neither battle nor
competition!
During the days of the Provas, Giorgio felt as if he had the all-seeing
eyes of a horse. Besides watching Turbolento's every move, he managed
to see what was happening to Farfalla, whether she was ahead of him or
behind. Her fantino, Ivan-the-Terrible, went around the curves flapping
his wings like a bird. Twice he flew off into space. Luckily, Farfalla
was not hurt by entangling reins or bumps from other horses. Giorgio
remembered later that he had noticed Ivan was unhurt only after he had
made sure about Farfalla!
"Which horse is it you ride?" an elderly man of the Forest whispered
to Giorgio after the third Prova. "Is it your Turbolento, or is it our
Farfalla?" And he winked and nudged him in the ribs as if he wished the
boy could be their fantino.
Quickly Giorgio's bodyguards closed in, wondering if the man were
making some secret offer. But they might have saved themselves the
trouble, for neither Turbolento nor Giorgio was considered strong
enough to win--or to help anyone else to win.
Despite his watchfulness, Giorgio failed to see the crippling accident
that happened to Farfalla in the last Prova on the very morning of the
Palio. Between the curves of San Martino and the Casato, the horses of
the Panther and the Unicorn were having a private race of their own.
As Farfalla tried to pass, a hoof lashed out and hit her a sharp blow,
almost severing the cartilage of her left hind foot. Ivan-the-Terrible
managed to stay on, and let her finish the race limping heavily.
Moments later Giorgio passed her in a narrow lane as she was being led
back to her stable. He turned to look at her bleeding heel. "The devil
pursues her!" he said to his guards. Then his eyes blazed with a sudden
thought. "They won't race her; they _can't_ race her this afternoon in
the Palio!" he cried out.
"But they got to!" the young men answered in chorus, and they turned on
him in a torrent of explanation.
"It is a law from year seventeen hundred," the Number One guard said.
"If an animal is lamed or dies in a Prova, it is not permitted to
replace him."
Another guard broke in excitedly. "Why, I myself saw one killed in a
Prova, and the contrada remained horseless."
"I too saw it!" the first one said. "And in the parade before the race
the long black tail and the severed hoof of the dead one were carried
on a platter of silver."
Now thoroughly roused, the guards were irrepressible. "And the flags of
that contrada were tightly furled in mourning and even the strongest
men wept like small children and cried aloud."
Giorgio felt his stomach turn over. Almost pleading, he looked from
face to face. "But Farfalla is crippled! There could be a stumble, a
fatal...."
"Then it will be her time to die," the Number One bodyguard said
flatly. "She too is only mortal." There was no coldness in his voice.
He was merely repeating words said to him long ago.
Giorgio tried to shut out thoughts of Farfalla. He made his mind go
forward. He began counting. Three hours until the blessing of the
horses in the churches of their contradas. Then the long historical
parade, and at last, at sundown, the Palio!
He went with Turbolento into the stable of the Shell and watched the
barbaresco go to work, sponging him off, making him comfortable and
cool with especial attention to his head, eyes, and nostrils. Giorgio
stood by as long as he could. Then from sheer habit he fell to his
knees and hand-rubbed Turbolento's legs. Unconsciously he worked for a
long time on the left hind, as if in some remote way he were helping
Farfalla.
Giorgio usually had the mind of a camera. Events registered sharply
with him. But that afternoon, during the long parade in which he wore
the martial costume of the Middle Ages and rode a heavy warhorse, he
felt himself an actor in a play, an actor who did not know his part. He
was bewildered by the vast sea of faces in the center of the Piazza,
and the kaleidoscope of color in costumes and flags, and the drums
beating out a somber rhythm. Through it all he rode woodenly, like a
toy soldier.
But with the explosion of the bomb announcing the race, he became all
awareness again. With every fiber he heard the starter call out the
horses in order.
"Number one, Caterpillar!"
"Number two, Shell!"
"Number three, Forest!" That was Farfalla. Ignoring her injury, she
walked briskly to the starting rope. Giorgio reminded himself that of
course the doctors had deadened her pain.
As the horses moved to their positions, Giorgio felt his breath coming
fast. Turbolento and Farfalla were side by side. "Is it some omen," he
asked himself, "that brings us together?"
The starter's voice blared on: "Number four, Tower.... Number five,
Snail.... Number six, Wave.... Number seven, Panther.... Number eight,
Goose.... Number nine, Turtle!"
Now nine horses in line--pawing, dancing, heads pulling to go. And nine
fantinos with faces taut, reins taut, waiting for the number ten horse.
Not until he is called to the rope can the race begin.
"Number ten, Unicorn!" the strident voice of the starter fills the
Piazza.
Head lowered like a bull charging, the number ten horse gallops up,
almost touches the rope. The starter springs it. It snakes free. Ten
horses, as one, leap over it!
Giorgio's fingers tighten hard around the nerbo. If he takes the lead,
he will not need it. He arrows Turbolento out in front, sets the pace.
Forty thousand throats cry "_Forza! Forza!_" as the bunched leaders
pass the Fonte Gaia, pass the Casino of the Nobles, pass the scaffold
where the judges sit. Now they are thundering toward the death curve of
San Martino.
Behind him Giorgio hears the nerbos strike hollow against horseflesh
and sharp against steel helmets, but he is still in the lead, free of
the bludgeoning.
Out of the tail of his eye he sees the Wave, the Goose, the Panther
fighting it out, and behind them Ivan-the-Terrible trying to drive
Farfalla through. In the split second of his looking, a fantino
catapults into the air like a rag doll shot from a cannon. It must be
Ivan! It _is_ Ivan! Farfalla is staggering on by herself. All this
Giorgio senses rather than sees. He is at the curve now. Turbolento is
leaning at a crazy angle; he seems to be tiring, faltering.
From every balcony and window, from all over the Piazza, the people of
the Shell are shouting to Giorgio: "The nerbo! The nerbo! Use the nerbo
on him!"
Giorgio feels icy terror. Turbolento is trying to wheel, to run the
wrong way of the track. His left foreleg crosses his right. It is
rooted! The pack is passing him! From both sides nerbos are raining
blows on him, on Giorgio, beating them out of the way.
Giorgio lifts the horse's head, tries to get the weight on his hocks,
but it is too late! Turbolento freezes, then buckles. His scream joins
the shrieks of the crowd as he somersaults and slides across the track.
Giorgio is pitched into the air, and hits with a thud on his back.
Hoofs go thundering past while he lies writhing, gasping, the wind
knocked out of his body. As in a trance he sees the white-coated
veterinarian rush out on the track. He hears the crack of the bullet
that ends Turbolento's life, and sees the limping form of Farfalla come
within an arm's length of the smoking pistol.
His heart beats thickly. He is suddenly afraid. A soundless prayer
escapes his lips.
"Not her, too! O Holy Mother, not her! Not her!"