Seven Seasons in Siena (13 page)

The Florentine writer Paola Fallaci, after coming to Siena and seeing the way the horses are treated here, wrote, “If I were to be reincarnated, I would choose to be a
cavallo da Palio
.” (She later amended this: “A
cavalla
, since the males are
castrated.”) This is, I now realize, the most significant way in which I differ from the Sienese: they're all equine enthusiasts, if not outright fanatics; connoisseurs of horseflesh, obsessed by each animal's character, traits, and abilities. My awareness of the horses has been largely peripheral; my interest is drawn instead to the workings of contrada society. This moment, right here and now, is the perfect illustration of this immutable dichotomy: all the brucaioli are gazing with wonder at Rose Rosa, while I'm gazing with wonder at the brucaioli themselves.

Soon the tables start emptying of their occupants, and a kind of protracted leave-taking begins, the final smattering of revelers moving toward the stairs to the clubhouse with glacial leisure. I collect leftover bottles from the vacated tables and take them back to the wine stand to (ssshh) consolidate their contents. Dario returns just as I'm sweeping up the litter of corks. I don't know where he's been all this time, and I'm not about to ask; as far as I'm concerned, after four days of my loping behind him like an organ grinder's monkey, he's deserved a few hours of private time.

On the way out we run into the rector, Fabio, who not only remembers me but thanks me for a job well done. Apparently, my humble labors in the corner of the garden have not gone unnoticed.

No chance of a Palio win tomorrow, true—but, just like that, it's a banner day for me.

…

 
ALL THAT PHYSICAL LABOR TAKES ITS TOLL; ON THE
morning of the day of the Palio, my arms and legs seem to be about three times heavier than usual, as though I've awakened on Jupiter instead of Earth.

Wait—did I say the
morning
of the day of the Palio? It's actually a little past that. In fact, Dario and I have to scramble to make it to Siena in time. Which is unfortunate, because neither one of us is quite in scrambling condition.

It's only when we've just crossed the city limits that we realize we've got several long hours in bleacher seats ahead of us and that we'd accordingly better eat something. Dario swings his van into the drive-through lane of a McDonald's and pulls up to the speaker. In the moment before it crackles to life and asks our order, he turns to me and says, with an explicit threat in his voice, “Never tell
anyone
we did this.”

The bare rudiments of nutrition now attended to, we continue to the
centro storico
, where parking is so ridiculously impossible that pretty much everyone has just left their cars wherever it is they finally decided to give up. I suppose God—and the Sienese police—must give a special dispensation to scofflaws on Palio day.

We meet the Meads at Palazzo Rivizza and make our way to the Campo, doing our best to stay united in the churning sea of fazzoletti. We scuttle down a narrow alleyway, where an official takes our tickets; and then it's up, up, up to our tiny bleacher seats. They're just as uncomfortable as I recall: small and hard and without backs, and there's really no place to put your feet, and we're here for at least four hours so let's hope no one feels the call of nature, because nature can't be answered.

The carabinieri come out for their traditional charge, and the sound of hoofbeats triggers something in me; a kind of pause button on my consciousness.

The historical procession begins, and Dario offers a running commentary for the Meads. I can't help comparing this with my experience last year, standing among the masses in the piazza, striving to hold my ground while trying in vain to catch some glimpse of the marchers. Suddenly, here I am with a bird's-eye view
and
expert commentary.

The procession eventually concludes; there's a hush over the entire Campo. I know I should be feeling the thrum of expectation, but I'm distracted by my mustache, which still smells strongly of Filet-O'-Fish. An unseasonably cool breeze comes up; Mrs. Mead draws a sweater around her shoulders.

Then the fantini ride out of the Palazzo Pubblico, and everything goes TILT. Suddenly there's no weather, no odor, no uncomfortable seating—there's just
this moment
, as people call out urgently and affectionately to the men (and the horses) who carry their hopes on their backs.

The order of the lineup is announced. Giraffe is called out first and so gets the inside track. I feel a little hardening in the air around Dario when this plum position is awarded to our
“invisible enemy.” The Snail is called last and so will be rincorsa. All that's left now is the race.

Going on two hours later, that's
still
all that's left. There's been an absolutely gut-wrenching mess at the mossa—a kind of equine equivalent to a can of worms—and the demeanor of the crowd has devolved from expectant to indignant. There've been a few instances when everyone got into place—and held it—and the crowd drew its collective breath in a
this-is-it
kind of way—only to have the rincorsa hold back instead of seizing the moment. The cries of
“Vai, vai, asino,”
fly over our heads like grapeshot. Three maddening false starts haven't exactly helped the mood. Dario keeps looking at the sky, which is rapidly deepening in hue. “I give it fifteen minutes,” he says, “before they call the race for darkness.” Which would mean postponement; which would mean starting all over again tomorrow. The Meads seem especially distressed by this possibility, because they're leaving town in the morning.

I can't but reflect that it
was
a smart move to grab that fast food on our way in, whether we wanted it or not. Without it, I'd have filched Mrs. Mead's sweater right off her shoulders and started gnawing it like a side of spareribs. As it is, I keep flicking my tongue up into the recesses of my mustache, hoping to find a crumb or two that went astray.

I gaze up at the heavens and realize daylight has now essentially receded. What's left is just the ochre tinge it's left behind—embers. It won't be long before the Campo is draped in dusk. It's strange, gazing at the skies; they seem so peaceful—the waning of day is so calming, like being gathered into a mother's arms. Yet here below, there's only furor and frustration. Though these people aren't raging against the
dying of the light so much as they are against the
mossiere
, the official responsible for dropping the mossa at the appropriate moment. Dario's ready to pull his hair out. I'm just resigning myself to the fact of a postponement.…

 … when suddenly, they're off. The mossa has dropped, the riders are in corsa, and it's balls to the wall. It takes me a few moments to recover from the shock; and then—and then—well, what
is
happening out there? It's gotten so dark I can't actually see.

A whirlwind ninety seconds later, the Owl careens past the finish—poetically, since the owl is a nocturnal bird, and this is now undeniably its element; the Campo is shimmering in twilight. It's also an emotionally satisfying outcome, because with this victory, the Owl sheds its shameful role as the Palio “grandmother.” The She-Wolf now assumes that title; its last victory was in 1989 (with a riderless horse). Accordingly the She-Wolf's enemy, the Porcupine, will be celebrating tonight as though they themselves had won.

The members of the Owl—the
cittevini
—are rapturous. But it's so dusky, it's left largely to the ears to discern the transports of ecstasy being enjoyed: shrieks, cries, sobs, invocations. And song. Always, always, even in their moments of greatest distraction, the Sienese find the will to sing.

MY TIME RUNS OUT;
I have to go back home to America. Reluctantly, I'm forced at last to borrow cash from Dario to get myself to Florence, where I'll catch my flight early the next day. He doesn't begrudge it, of course, and I'll repay him as soon as I'm home—but still it rankles my pride. I don't like inconveniencing my friends. And to make the matter vastly
more irritating, I find my replacement AmEx card waiting for me at my Florence hotel. It's not too little, but it's definitely too late.

This just exacerbates my nagging sense of unease. I'm not entirely satisfied with the time I've spent here. Oh, I've enjoyed myself, as I always do in Siena, but enjoyment isn't why I've come. The whole point of this enterprise is to immerse myself in the life of the Caterpillar contrada and with any luck be embraced by its members in return. I've made very little progress in that respect. And though I've chosen to blame this on the loss of my wallet—which left me dependent on Dario and unable to venture out on my own—I have to acknowledge that that's not really the case. I could have figured out some way to get around if I'd really tried. The problem, I now realize, was that I didn't have any idea what to do with that kind of autonomy: where to go, whom to talk to. It actually served me better to stay close to Dario, since he's a brucaiolo and knows the ropes.

And suddenly it seems clear to me,
painfully
clear, that I've been going about this the wrong way. I can't ever learn the ways of the Bruco or come to understand its character by showing up only at Palio time. July and August are periods of hyperreality for them; everything is urgent, in a state of heightened agitation—even when they're not in corsa. If I'm serious about seeing the contrada's true face, I need to be here during the rest of the year. The Palio, after all, isn't the real story; the community is. And I need to see that community shorn of its window dressing. What goes on here in fall or the dead of winter? Where does spring find the brucaioli?
Those
are the things I need to discover.

The additional benefit is that, during an ordinary week in
an average season, an American visitor to Società L'Alba might be a bit more visible. Might even, possibly, be worthy of interest.

All right, then. Home for now.

But not for long. And not entirely.

Because I'm leaving a little bit of my heart right here.

…

 
IT'S A CHILLY FALL AFTERNOON; I'VE JUST ARRIVED IN
Siena by train, and I have several hours ahead of me with flap-all to do. Looked at one way, that might mean I'm footloose and fancy free; I could go blithely leapfrogging from contrada to contrada, ducking into and out of chapels, museums, shops, and tavernas, chatting up the locals in my increasingly confident Tuscan. But alas, I'm hampered by my suitcase. I've tried to pack as lightly as possible, and in fact it's just a carry-on bag, several degrees smaller than some of the backpacks I see young student types hauling on their shoulders, stooping them so low you can't tell whether they're on their way to Club Med or Calvary. But even so my bag is a burden; by the time I've wheeled it from the station to the Campo, the sound of it rattling over the cobblestones has frayed my nerves to thin silken strands.