Half-bred
Tuesday, June 29. Morning. The whole city seething in warlike
impatience. Il Campo in battle array. Everything ready for the trial
of the horses. The stout railing around the shell to keep the people
from spilling onto cobblestones. The mattresses, upright, lining the
treacherous curves. The tiers of seats rising in front of the palaces
and shops. The high platforms for the judges and dignitaries. The bomb
cage on stilts, looking like an oversized parrot cage, ready for the
charge of gunpowder.
And people converging from all directions, talking excitedly with their
hands, their voices. Which horses will be chosen to run? Surely not the
old one who has twelve years! Surely not the little one with the ewe
neck? Surely not Gaudenzia with the hot blood in her veins?
The lone hand on the clock of the Mangia Tower points to nine. Within
the courtyard of the Palazzo Pubblico seventeen horses and riders are
ready. Giorgio is ready. He has done everything the Chief asked. And
more. He has plastered sculptor's clay on Gaudenzia's legs to make them
look coarse, like those of any cold-blooded hack. But there is nothing
he can do to coarsen her fine, intelligent head.
Out in the shell, a little insect of a man, known as the Spider, climbs
his ladder, touches a match to the gunpowder in the cage, and with a
thundering _bang_ the trials have begun! Four horses prance out of the
palace courtyard. At the starter's signal they take off, leaping over
the rope before it touches the earth. At the very first curve one horse
falls, skids across the track like a slab of ice. The crowd screams as
the horse scrambles to his feet. He will be rejected. It is Fate.
Another group is called. No falls this time, but the horses are not
evenly matched. They straggle along like knots on a string.
And still another group, while Gaudenzia waits. She listens to the
hoofbeats. Flecks of foam come out on her body. Her whole being asks:
Why are we not out there with the others? She whinnies out after them.
Giorgio lays quieting hands on her, soothes them along her neck and
withers. He is glad her mantle is gray so the sudsy foam does not show.
At last she is called with the remaining five. Her long-reaching legs
are ready. Her heart and lungs are ready. Giorgio mounts. His heart
tightens in sudden doubt. Is speed her only virtue? Has she learned
obedience? He wets his parched lips, prays fiercely. "O Holy One, let
her be in the middle! Don't let her run away and set the pace. Let her
just be middling!"
The starter steps on the lever. The rope, set free, snakes crazily
to earth. Five horses leap over it. They're away! Evenly! Past the
scaffold of the judges, past the Fonte Gaia. One horse tries to wing
out at the incoming street of San Pietro, but the others are moving in
a bunch. "Oh, Mamma mia! Don't let her win! Don't let her!"
She is third at the curve of San Martino, and third at the Casato.
Suddenly she asks to arrow out in front, but she feels the bit pulling
up into her mouth, exerting more and more pressure on her tongue. She
slows. She lets Giorgio hold her. She obeys!
Out of the first realization, like the first glint of sunlight from
behind a cloud, Giorgio feels an unutterable joy. Twice around, and
three times around, she lets him hold her! In third place she finishes,
all her fire inheld. The trials are over!
While the judges pondered and debated their decisions, Giorgio rode
into the cool courtyard of the Palazzo. Here were only the sweating
horses and the men, all of them bound together in the misery of waiting.
The Chief-of-the-Guards, immaculate in his starched white uniform,
looked in and strode over to Giorgio. There was a smile of incredulity
on his face.
"I salute you!" he said. "Gaudenzia's disguise was _bellissima_! When
first I saw her at the starting rope, it seemed I dreamt with open
eyes. Even a sculptor, I think, could not have done a better work on
living skin."
He made no effort to hide his happiness, for already he knew the
results of the trials. Already a deputy was fastening a disc numbered
10 to Gaudenzia's cheek strap to show that she had been chosen.
The Chief led Giorgio and the mare out into the Piazza, into a corral
where the ten horses would be on display as at an auction. The big
difference was that here a horse could not be bought; not for any
price. It was assigned to a contrada as irrevocably as a child is born
to certain parents. Here all was luck. A minuscule slip of paper in a
tiny capsule would tell which contrada would win the best horse.
Suspense was growing intolerable. There was wild shouting for the
favorites. Voices came piercing and crashing around Giorgio.
"We want Ravu!"
"We want Uganda!"
"We want Rosetta!"
An official groom shoved Giorgio to one side, took hold of Gaudenzia.
There was now no need for Giorgio. And then, in a flash, he realized
there was no need for him anywhere! The awfulness struck him. For nine
months he had been blindly running up a dead-end street. Feeling
sick and bereft, he went back into the empty courtyard. He picked up
Gaudenzia's rub rag, hung it on a peg. He made meaningless motions of
tidying up. But even here, away from the crowd, he saw the whole scene
in his mind--the Mayor and the captains at the long table, the urns
containing the capsules, the pages and trumpeters waiting. And then,
as in a storm, when thunder rumbles and ricochets from rock to rock,
the voices came booming against the Palazzo wall and into the very
courtyard:
"Number seven, Ravu, to the Ram!"
He could hear the Rams roaring with joy for the favorite.
"Number nine, Pinocchio, to the Giraffe!"
Men and boys howled in derision, "Long Neck gets Long Nose! Long Neck
gets Long Nose."
The roaring was uncontrolled; it subsided only while the capsules were
being opened.
"Number one to the Wolf!"
"Number five to the Dragon!"
"Number two to the Tower!"
"Number ten to Onda, the Wave!"
Giorgio shot out of the courtyard, but the way to the corral was
blocked. By the time he could wriggle through, the drawing was over!
And, suddenly, there was trumpet music, and drums beating wild, and the
barbaresco of the Onda was leading Gaudenzia to their stable. In an
agony of emptiness Giorgio melted into the throng, went tagging along
like some outsider. With no halter or bridle to hold, his hands felt
awkward, useless. A piece of his heart was going away with Gaudenzia.
Should he catch up with the barbaresco and tell him about the
crib-biting? Should he offer his belt? Should he offer to clean
Gaudenzia's stable tomorrow, and tomorrow?
No, everything was out of his control now. In the next moments he lived
a lifetime. No contrada had asked him to be their fantino. Why should
they? In two Palios he had not won.
A fight started in the crowd. A young boy from the Dragon and one
from the Tower began with friendly roughness, yanking each other's
caps, then grabbing contrada scarves, then arms swinging, and fists
pummeling. Giorgio wanted to join in, to throw one and then the other
flat on the ground. Anything would be better than having nothing to do.
Someone in the crowd recognized Giorgio, pointed a finger at him. "Hey,
fantino! Afoot now? Ha! Ha!"
Giorgio leaped at the lanky fellow, ready to land a left jab, when
suddenly his arm was wrenched behind him. A strange, deep voice
commanded: "Hold there, Giorgio! Let up! Street fighting is for boys.
_You_ face the real battle, the battle of the Palio."
Giorgio looked into the eyes of a gentleman. At once he recognized
the man. He had just seen him on the platform with all the officials.
"You!" he gulped for air. "You are General Barbarulli, leader of the
Onda!"
The General smiled. Then he linked his arm into Giorgio's, and above
the din spoke into his ear: "The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards tells me it
is you who trained Gaudenzia."
Giorgio nodded, scarcely breathing.
"A stroke of chance has given her to the Onda, but," the General
slowed his words, emphasizing each one, "but with Giorgio Terni as her
fantino, that is not luck. _That_ is destiny."