Seven Seasons in Siena (24 page)

Eventually—and sooner than I'd thought; the Emperor Justinian hasn't even died yet—I'm summoned from the reception area into a chair, and Fabio appears in a white smock, beaming quiet authority.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I say. “I think I broke a tooth.”

“Let's have a look,” he says, and as he's peering into my mouth I realize that he has almost exactly the eyes of Albert Einstein—there's the same quality of empathic wisdom in them. Ancient eyes, which you can easily miss because he's otherwise so youthful.

After a bit of prodding, Fabio reaches in with some tweezerlike instruments and removes a small fish bone. “This was lodged in your gum,” he says; “that's what caused the pain and the swelling. The tooth itself is sound.”

This is of course a relief, but I also feel a little foolish. It seems somehow unmanly that something so tiny—the bone is scarcely more than a filament, barely visible in the light—could so disable me.

And just like that, I'm out of the chair again. I wasn't even there long enough to warm the seat. I follow Fabio into his office, whose walls are a kind of pale salmon, perhaps the better to set off the yellow, blue, and green of the Bruco artifacts around the room, which include barberi balls, framed prints, a miniature pennant, ceramic pieces, and carved caterpillars.
It's a little temple to the Caterpillar, here in the heart of the Porcupine.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” I say, trying to prolong the encounter. “I didn't realize you were so busy. It surprises me, actually. I thought being rector of the Bruco was a full-time job.”

He smiles. “It's not so bad as that.”

“It must be very demanding.”

“I suppose it is. It doesn't feel that way. Actually, I enjoy it.”

“It shows. I think people appreciate it, too. I've heard some of them say, only half jokingly, that you should be rector for life.”

He chuckles. “Well, that's very generous. But I don't think it's such a good idea. This is a very good time in the contrada, very constructive and positive. But I don't want them to be stuck with me when the time comes for a change, as it always does. I'm willing to continue serving for as long as I'm useful, but there's a reason for the two-year election cycle. When the time comes for fresh blood, I'll be happy to step aside.”

“Would you ever become captain instead?” Another rumor I've heard.

“No, I think not; I don't have the knowledge of horses required. Also, the captain is concerned almost exclusively with the Palio—negotiating, laying the groundwork, doing whatever is necessary to win. Which is, of course, of vital importance. But I prefer to devote myself to the everyday affairs of the contrada.”

“Well, I have to compliment you on that. You realize that's why I'm here, don't you? When I first came to Siena, I instantly
became a Palio enthusiast. But the more I studied and learned, the more the Palio, for all its drama and excitement, became a secondary consideration. It's the life of the contrada that's the real phenomenon here. To me, it's an ideal society. Everyone comes together, everyone belongs, everyone has such pride. I envy that. It must be wonderful to be part of it.”

He's nodding as I speak, as though appreciating the fact that I really do
get
it. Everyone likes to have his work acknowledged, and by all accounts Fabio has worked creditably hard to turn the Caterpillar around after several moribund decades. Gianni's success at winning Palii has of course been of vital importance, as well. It's really been my good fortune to have found an entrée into this particular contrada at this particular time. It's almost certainly the happiest and best run in the whole city. I occasionally hear stories about other contrade's assemblies ending with people throwing punches or hurling chairs; and even in the Caterpillar, things were much more fractious during the long losing streak before 1996. But now, with three victories in five years, they're basking in success.

Though on second thought, it isn't luck that brought me here. If what I'd first seen of the brucaioli had been tense and unruly, I'd never have bothered exploring their way of life at all. I'm here solely because of the particular magic that they, and only they, can conjure at this specific moment in time. If luck is involved at all, it's not that I was lucky to have found the Caterpillar; it's that the Caterpillar was here to be found.

My chat with Fabio has now become almost social; in fact, his assistant comes in and offers me an espresso. I accept but drink it down in one gulp; it's the middle of a busy workday morning, and Fabio has professional duties to attend to. I
know this only by the bustle of activity that I can sense beyond his office door; he himself shows no sign of anxiety or hurry or impatience. It occurs to me that this must be his true gift as rector: the ability to
listen
. How often have you heard that said about a great leader? “He/she made me feel like the only other person in the room.” Well, in this case I really
am
the only person in the room; but I'm sure as hell not the only other person in his office.

After thanking him for his time and heading back out to the street, I feel a kind of exhilaration—as though the wind is at my back. And it's not just the sudden alleviation of my toothache. It's a bright, clear morning, and the whole day is open before me. I start walking and find myself inexorably drawn to the Caterpillar district. Stricken by a sudden pang of hunger, I stop into the fruit shop run by Mario, a lifelong brucaiolo, and buy a clementine. A tall, lanky man of middle age with an aristocratic mien, Mario is a good source of information on the life of the Bruco, especially given that his shop is in the very heart of the contrada, just yards from the grotto containing the sculpture of both the rampant caterpillar and the heroic Barbicone.

As I get my citrus fix, he and I chat, and I find myself having a kind of replay of my talk with Fabio. “The thing about the Bruco,” he says, “is that it has two aspects. Because, you see, Siena is made up of seventeen small, independent states; each contrada is its own sovereign entity, governed by its inhabitants. Yet each contrada is also an extended family. All the
bambini
of the Bruco are my nieces and nephews; anyone you meet here will say the same. It's why we have no drugs here, no delinquency.”

He tells me I would see this family aspect most clearly illustrated
if I could witness one of the big rites of passage—a baptism, a wedding, a funeral. But the contrada also works in quieter, less showy ways; for example, lending support to young people who leave home for the first time or to those who fall into economic distress. “Two aspects,” Mario concludes, “but only one nature.”

I find myself thinking back to last year's August Palio, when the Tower contrada extracted one of the most desired horses. Rather than react with the usual burst of near-violent ecstasy, they collected the mount in complete silence and led it out of the Campo in quiet dignity. Only later did we learn that this was a gesture of respect to the family of the boy who had just died. Now I realize it was more than a gesture; all those torraioli in the Campo that day, in their dozens if not hundreds,
were
the boy's family, in a very real sense.

It's a disorienting epiphany; it makes me aware of the magnitude of the task I've set myself. How can I ever fully comprehend the breadth and depth, much less the intricacies and nuances, of life in a contrada, especially when I can contrive to be here only a handful of times during the year? I don't have the resources to live in Siena for any extended time.

My sails, so recently billowed, now droop a little. I feel suddenly like a tourist again. I depart Siena the next day, wondering if I'll ever remotely get it right.

…

 
JUST DAYS BEFORE I'M DUE TO RETURN TO SIENA FOR
my next visit, a volcano with the cat-runs-across-the-keyboard name of Eyjafjallajökull erupts in Iceland, vomiting up such a quantity of ash and grit into the atmosphere that flights across Europe are summarily canceled; almost the entire continent is grounded. Rachel, who's also heading back, departed just hours before the blast, and it's a few days before I hear from Dario that she's arrived safely—after having to abandon air travel somewhere along the way and complete the journey by boat. Again, she's utterly outdone me. My November walk from Vagliagli to Porta Ovile seems quite literally pedestrian next to her epic trawl over earth and water, through air and fire—epic
and
elemental, then—to reach the sweet haven of Società L'Alba. My journey took four hours; hers, a compressed geologic age. I picture her at the prow of some wave-tossed vessel, the wind whipping her hair dramatically behind her as she peers through hot rain and stinging ash for her first glimpse of the Italian peninsula. As compared to me kicking through autumn leaves in my boots and my anorak, my backpack filled with snacks.

I try to take comfort in discomfort; that is, in the pain I'm
currently suffering due to the onset of shingles. About a week ago, a few itchy welts erupted on my flank, which I assumed must be insect bites. I blamed the dogs for having dragged some pernicious thing with mandibles into the house and deposited it on the couch (we have three dogs;
you
try to keep them off the furniture). But calamine lotion didn't ease the inflammation, and within a few days I had an ugly stripe of red swooping up my side into my upper back—and the itching had given way to the kind of sharp, searing agony that makes you want to walk in front of an oncoming bus because
Oh God, just let me feel pain somewhere else for a second
.

My main reason for venturing back to Siena at this specific time is to take part in a relay race from Siena to the nearby hill town of Montalcino; almost all the contrade will be competing, and Dario has arranged it so that I'm running a leg for the Caterpillar. The course is eleven kilometers, and the shingles will likely make each step a torment. By such means do I prove my devotion to the Bruco. Prove it to myself, anyway; I don't know how to make anyone else aware of it without appearing boastful. It's easy enough for the brucaioli to witness Rachel forging her way through showers of molten slag, not so easy to perceive the lavalike burning going on under my shirt. I'm getting to be kind of an expert at this private suffering thing, for all the good it does me.

O'Hare International Airport is a roiling stew of travelers on the day of my departure, and my flight is oversold. I get bumped to a much later one but then upgraded to business class as an apology for the inconvenience. The plane deposits me into Bologna as gently as into a lap, and the train ride to Siena unfolds with equal serenity. Rachel meets me at the station and drives me to the hills above Vagliagli, up to the tree-shaded
bench that Dario calls his office, where Dario himself is waiting with a wedge of Parmesan and an open bottle of Chianti Classico. There's a bit of a chill in the air as we toast my arrival, but it doesn't alter the warmth of the welcome, and when Michele drives by in his truck and sees us, he skids to a halt and joins us, bearing a bag of fresh fava beans that we shell and eat right there—and once again it's taken me no time at all to realize that I've once again arrived in an alternate reality; that I've left behind a frenetic world, rife with frustration and anxiety, for one in which the rhythms of nature still set the tone for daily life and in which pleasures shared are valued more highly than points scored or advantages taken. At Bar San Cristoforo later, Michele's wife, Maria Pia, joins us along with two charming expats, Nicholas and Michaela, and within minutes it's like we've been meeting for drinks like this every night of our lives. And at dinner later, Rachel prepares a meal with Dario's olio nuovo, still peppery and potent five months later and served by a crackling fire.

Maybe life isn't actually better here; maybe it's just different. But right here, right now, with the heat of the flames on my face and the scent of jasmine wafting through the window, that's not an argument I'm ready to buy.