The Rabbit's Foot and the Horn
The second Palio of 1953 was bloodless, but again it fell short of
Giorgio's dreams. Not until the last moment did any contrada ask him to
ride. Then on a cold-blooded horse he raced for the Panthers. A flashy
bay won for the Forest, but of course Farfalla was not there. Things
might have been different, he thought, if he had had the right mount.
He wondered what had become of her, if she would ever race again.
On a morning soon afterward, Giorgio set out quite early for the weekly
market held in the Piazza del Campo. He was leaving for Monticello that
selfsame day, but first he had a purchase to make. He planned to walk
all the way home to save for his mother the few lire he had left from
his year in Siena. And since it was the season of the rains, he would
need either a raincoat or an umbrella. A raincoat would make him look
more like a successful fantino, but it would cost 5,000 lire, and for
that sum he could buy four umbrellas! Besides, he had ruined his only
satchel with blistering liniments and blue gentian for his horses, and
he would need a carryall for his clothes. By rolling them into small,
bread-size bundles he could pack them between the ribs of an umbrella.
And so, for one price, he would have a traveling bag and a canopy
against the rain.
As he trudged the steep hill of Via Fontebranda, he felt cross-arrows
of sadness and gladness. The sadness was for his performance in the
Palios. Two contradas had believed in him and he had failed them,
miserably. He had failed his family, and himself, too. Even Signor
Ramalli needed him no more; he was selling his horses and would not
start up his stable again until spring, if then.
So now, defeated and discouraged, Giorgio was going back home where he
belonged. That was the wonderful thing about Home. It waited patiently
for you to come back, hero or failure. In his mind's eye he was already
there, his mother singing as she whisked an egg for their soup; his
father contentedly blowing smoke rings; the children poking their
fingers through them. And pervading the whole house was the comforting,
all-is-well feeling, as if downy wings were spread wide and all who
came within were safe.
He was deep in these thoughts as he joined the procession of men with
their baskets and women with their market bags. He decided not to
make his purchase right away, but to move through the crowd, enjoying
the sights and sounds. He had to laugh at a bearded old man in an
ankle-length coat who picked up a lady's mirror and a goose quill from
a counter of trinkets and trifles. Unmindful of anyone else, he studied
his long yellow teeth in the mirror, picked them clean with the goose
quill, and tossed both articles back on the table. Enraged, the man
behind the counter promptly smashed the mirror on the cobblestones.
"You miser! You horse's teeth!" he called out. "For you this means
worst luck."
Giorgio walked on, still laughing. Life was fun, after all. He stopped
at another stand, fascinated by a hawker of handkerchiefs. The man was
wrapping one after another about his fist until the bundle grew big as
a pumpkin. He kept his audience in an uproar as he wound and wound the
white squares. "Peoples!" he shouted. "A thousand uses they have! To
clean the rifle. To strain the jelly. To substitute for the diaper. To
blow the nose, even great one like Pinocchio's. Now, who wants whole
bundle for only two hundred lire. Who wants?"
Hands went up in coveys, like birds flushed from a hedgerow. And the
money poured in. Giorgio could not help wondering if men like this--men
who could make so much money and who could make people laugh, too--did
they have worries inside them?
He went on, through the maze of hardware and pink petticoats and flower
stalls, and the stalls with bright-colored fish and tiny talking
birds. He bought two fish to give to Anna, and a new belt for himself.
At last he came to the umbrellas. Under a bright purple awning they
were hanging down like a stumpy green fringe.
The man selling them was bent double, counting shiny lire from his
pocket into a copper pitcher on the ground. All Giorgio could see of
him was the bright green patch on the seat of his trousers. It was the
same green as the umbrellas!
When the man stopped a moment in his counting to peer around for
customers, Giorgio nearly dropped his fish.
"Uncle Marco!" he shouted. "Uncle Marco!"
With a clanking jangle the remaining money fell into the pitcher
uncounted. The man spun around, at the same time pushing back his
feathered hat and squinting his eyes to make sure. Then he leaped over
the pitcher, grabbed Giorgio by the shoulders, and bellowed for all the
world to hear. "Giorgio! Giorgio Terni!" Fiercely, fondly, he embraced
the boy, kissing him man-fashion, first on one cheek, then the other.
A little crowd began gathering and Uncle Marco smiled beatifically at
the ready-made audience. "Signori!" he announced, "I wouldn't believe
mine eyes. Behold the little runt from Monticello!" He spoke with
reverence, with ecstasy. There were tears in his eyes.
"This brave young fantino," he explained, "is more Sienese than the
Sienese! Some day he will conquer curve of San Martino. You listen to
your Umbrella Man! This boy will be a fantino _formidabile_! The
Palio ... he will win it!"
Red-faced, Giorgio pulled at Uncle Marco's sleeve. "Please, Uncle,
please! I come to buy the umbrella. An oiled-cloth one, because they
are cheaper. You see," he stammered, "today I go home to Monticello."
Uncle Marco slapped his thigh and laughed until the tears streaked down
the furrows of his cheeks.
Giorgio grew angry. Was this a time to laugh? Had the Umbrella Man gone
daft?
"Ah, the sadness so sweet! So joyous!" he sighed, making no sense
whatsoever. A few bystanders nodded, as if they knew a sweet sadness
too. One woman began sobbing softly.
Giorgio tried to back away, but Uncle Marco lifted him bodily off his
feet, giving him a bear hug, almost crushing him in happy excitement.
"Put me _down_! Put me _down_! You spill my fish!"
Uncle Marco set him down as if he were a child. "You listen to me," he
said. "I foresee...." He let the sentence dangle teasingly in midair.
Then to heighten the suspense he whispered in a stage voice directly
into Giorgio's ear. But first he examined the ear, marveling at its
smallness. "I foresee," he said prophetically, "to Monticello you do
not go."
"Oh, but I do! This very morning I go."
"Ho, ho! Listen to him! So little faith has he." Putting his
arm around Giorgio, he faced the audience, sighing deep, as if
he could hold the suspense no longer. "Someone," he pronounced,
"someone _multo importante_ wishes Giorgio to see. No less than the
Chief-of-the-Town-Guards! Himself, the Chief!"
The crowd was enjoying the show, old men clicking their teeth, little
boys nudging one another in envy.
"He wishes to see _me_?" Giorgio asked in disbelief.
"Si, si. He tries everywhere to find Giorgio Terni. First he goes to
the Ramallis'; you not there. They say to him: 'Giorgio, he went to
market to buy the raincoat, or maybe the umbrella.' So the Chief comes
at once to me.
"'Where is Giorgio Terni?' he asks. 'You have seen him, yes?' 'No,
no,' I have to say. 'Him I have not seen in long, long time.' He says,
'Giorgio will come.' 'For certain?' I ask. 'For certain,' he says."
Uncle Marco licked his lips and beamed, first upon Giorgio and then
upon the audience. "So now everything is arranged. You, Giorgio Terni,
must come here to Il Campo tonight at the hour of ten." He pointed
across the Piazza. "Over there at the street café by the Fonte Gaia
will be the Chief. He will await you. So now the umbrella you do not
need. Instead...."
He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a slender red horn made from
sea coral. It shone brightly in his calloused hand. "Anciently," he
said, crinkling his eyes until they were slits, "Roman gladiators carry
this horn for best luck."
He doffed his hat and bowed as if he were conferring a knighthood. "I
make a present to you, Giorgio." He held it dangling on its string
before the boy, who returned bow for bow but made no comment. He could
see Uncle Marco had more to say.
"And for extra good luck, here is also a small rabbit's foot. An
American lady give it me for a favor. Now I give to you." He pressed
both into Giorgio's hands and smiled exultantly.