Seven Seasons in Siena (12 page)

Afterward, when the mounts have all been assigned, Dario takes the Meads to a prearranged lunch at La Compagnia dei Vinattieri, a Caterpillar-owned restaurant in the Goose contrada. I am, of course, compelled to tag along due to my inability to feed myself. The conversation dwells principally on the mechanics of the Palio—this is, after all, why the Meads enlisted Dario to accompany them in the first place—though later we're all introduced to the proprietor, a surprisingly youthful gent named Marco; and there he is, another brucaiolo under my belt.

After the meal, with the Meads deposited back at their hotel (the exceptionally beautiful Palazzo Ravizza), Dario—knowing that I'm eager to reconnect with the life of the contrada—takes me to Società L'Alba, where a number of brucaioli linger congenially in the garden. We amble up to the bar and have a prosecco; it goes quickly, so we have another. I'm still lugging my baggage behind me, which must mark me as an interloper in the eyes of everyone who speaks to us, but they're cordial enough, and I'm really, honestly beginning to unclench.

We drive to Dario's village of Vagliagli, where we spot a friend of his, Clara, outside Bar San Cristoforo. The old woman, her age-defying vanity betrayed by her full makeup and jaunty hat, stops to talk through the car window, basically ignoring me until she hears that I'm a friend and neighbor of Rachel, at which time I become a person of great interest to her. She entrusts me to take her love to Rachel—
she uses what I presume is an idiomatic expression, something like “Carry her my love in your pocket,” which makes me reflect momentarily how unsafe my pockets have lately proven—and when I look up again, I find her crying. Rachel has clearly made a conquest here, and more resoundingly than I've been able to manage in my own time in Tuscany.

Since we're right at Bar San Cristoforo, we figure we might as well stop. I say hello to Maria the proprietress, who beams a welcoming smile at me, as though I've been away only a few days. We order another round of prosecchi and sit outside under the canopy, where, perhaps inevitably, we fall into conversation with two English-speaking German tourists, middle-aged professional men who recognize Dario from his author photos and can scarcely believe their good luck at running into him (I am merely a bonus). I begin to understand my role in Dario's public image: I'm the wacky sidekick. I'm Rhoda Morgenstern.

Dario's friend Michele stops by as well, and since he speaks only Italian he and I converse while Dario entertains his fans. Michele insists on buying me another drink, and I'm reminded that the days of the Palio can become marathons of alcohol consumption if you're not careful. I've been far from careful today but make a vow to do better tomorrow.

Back at Dario's house, there's one last glass of wine as we watch the exclusive victory DVD the Caterpillar produced after last year's unexpected triumph. Most notable is a section at the end, in which brief scenes of very old brucaioli are intercut with those of the young children of the contrada, all of them saying the same thing: “In my life I have seen three victories.” It's a funny, sweet way of dramatizing the difference between the culo and sfiga generations—and how different
the emotional lives of these children will be from those of their long-parched but ever hopeful elders.

As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me: I myself have seen
two
victories. And suddenly, never mind my wallet, I feel lucky again.

…

 
ALL THE NEXT DAY I AM, BY NECESSITY, DARIO'S WINGMAN
. I accompany him to the magnificent hotel in the Chianti countryside, Relais Borgo Scopeto, where he meets the Meads for lunch. They seem genuinely pleased to see me again, so I feel obligated to give them my full attention—though I'm temporarily distracted by the sight of Vanessa Redgrave sailing across the courtyard. Dario explains that a movie,
Letters to Juliet
, has just finished filming in the area and that the cast are accommodated here. I've been dazzled by Redgrave since she was a kooky sixties gamine in
Morgan!
, so it's hard for me to take my eyes off her. She's an old woman now, but I'm still left with a sense of almost spiritual elation, as though Aphrodite had crossed my path, or Titania, or the Lady of the Lake.

After lunch, we leave the Meads in the charge of one of Dario's lieutenants and head back to Siena, where we soon find ourselves at Bar Macario downing Tuscan beer. It feels as though I never left; the place is as jammed with brucaioli as ever, and the talk is all Palio, Palio, Palio—though with less urgency now, since the Caterpillar isn't
in corsa
, as they say.

After our thirst is quenched, we head down Via dei Rossi on our way to Società L'Alba but are waylaid by Luigina, who's having a drink at the little bar just two doors down from the San Francesco, where I stayed last year. I recall looking out my window at this place—which appears, intriguingly, to have no discernible identity (all it says on the door is “Caffetteria, Sala da Tè,” which is a description, not a name). Its little two-table patio is the scene of a continuous coming and going of brucaioli, who meet singly or in small parties, linger, talk, drink, smoke, and move on. It seems scarcely credible that I'm now taking a seat here myself; I feel as though I've just passed some invisible velvet rope.

In the Sienese way, we're joined by several others as they pass, some of whose acquaintance I make, others of whom don't pause long enough for an introduction. One of the more memorable is Giuliano Ghiselli, a silver-haired fox with ice blue eyes and an edge to his voice that would stop traffic, if cars were allowed on these streets. He has tremendous natural authority and in fact plenty of institutional authority as well; he's a writer, lecturer, TV personality, and general expert on this city and its history. Possibly he's a resource I can tap later. He also appears to be someone who doesn't suffer fools gladly.

Then on to a dinner at Società; and again there's the feeling of never having left. The garden seems to have existed in a state of enchanted immutability since I was here last: everything is just as I last saw it—the lights, the textures, the gentle lapping of conversation against shores of song. The only difference is that no one tonight is wearing a fazzoletto. As Dario explains it, that's done only during times when the contrada is in corsa.

During the dinner I meet Peggy Castaldi, an American woman from San Francisco who now lives here part-time and who's actually been baptized in the contrada. She's bright and funny, with a cascade of impossibly abundant auburn hair, and seems to mesh seamlessly with the natives; I ask her what her secret is, and she looks at me oddly. “Just being here,” she says, as if
obviously
that's all it takes; and I can see that it might be all it takes
her
. Some people are like open windows; there's no artifice, no expectation, no apprehension in them—they joyfully embrace any new experience. I'm not an open window, not even a shuttered one. I feel more like the trapdoor to the cellar with the padlock that's rusted shut. Got to get a crowbar and pry that baby open. I'm trying, I'm trying, but I'm a different order of human being from people like Peggy and Rachel, and before them Roy Moskovitz. But that doesn't mean I can't learn. And these are the people I've selected to teach me, right here, right now.

After dinner we stop in the kitchen to volunteer ourselves for tomorrow's big event: the
cena della prova generale
. I recognize a few of the staff and stop to say hello; then we depart the Bruco—but not for home. Dario has an appointment in the Pantera (Panther) contrada, where he's arranged to pick up bleacher tickets for the Meads. I accompany him—basically, I'm afraid to let him out of my sight, given my current pauperism. The Panther—not so large nor so rich a contrada as the Caterpillar—has its dinners in the lobby of a movie theater. But its residents' ebullience is undeniable; there's no shortage of joy here.

Dario leaves me in the care of one of the contrada's
provicari
, Filippo, while he conducts his transaction. A very boyish fortysomething, Filippo is only too happy to treat me to a
drink and answer my questions about life in the Panther. In fact, I almost get the impression that I'm being courted—that my affiliation with the Bruco represents a challenge to this son of the Panther. Possibly I'm imagining things; possibly my difficulty in breaking through the reserve of the brucaioli is making me wonder whether my devotion would be more gladly received
here
. Possibly I'm just drunk. Actually, scratch that “possibly.” In the end I remain true to the Caterpillar, though with a new sense of fraternal affection for the Panther. I will be its earnest advocate in any endeavor in which it's not in direct competition with the Bruco. As I'm sure they appreciate.

The next night we arrive early to undertake our duties for the big Palio-eve cena. Fortunately, this time I'm not buried away in the sweltering kitchen but am out on the patio, manning the wine table with Dario. The contrada supplies plenty of free table wine, but those who prefer a more complex vintage can come to us and buy a nice bottle of Lamole di Lamole Chianti Classico. This turns out to be a much more felicitous assignment; for one thing, it's a pleasant night with a slight hint of breeze, so my sweating stays within a range generally considered normal for inhabitants of this planet; and also, I get to meet dozens of brucaioli as they arrive to give us their custom. We take their cash, pull the corks for them, and have a nice chat while we're doing it.

As the free wine on the table runs out, the traffic to our table increases, and suddenly I find myself working rather harder than I'd anticipated. I'm lugging crates from the storeroom, tearing them open and uncorking them as fast as I can, and taking euros from a wall of people three deep. No one feels like chatting now. Dario has gone off for a smoke, leaving
me on my own, and he's gone so long I begin to picture him puffing away on some enormous foot-long cigar. Possibly this is his way of testing me, like when you teach toddlers how to swim by just throwing them in the pool.

And swim I do. In fact, I manage to last out the evening and close up shop all by myself. This gives me time to doff my apron, have a celebratory cup of wine myself (my first of the day, thank you very much), and take my first real spin through the garden. And it's there I get a close-up view of the dinner's special guest: Rose Rosa, the horse that won the 1996 Palio that ended the Bruco's long losing streak. Earlier, she'd been given a formal introduction and a grand entrance, and at the sight of her everyone stood up and sang the song composed in her honor, “Rose Rosa la Cavallina Nostra”; and though I couldn't see this from my vantage point behind the wine table, I later heard that there were many grateful tears. The former captain, Riccardo, gave a speech in tribute during which he was visibly moved, followed by another from Gianni the vicario. This girl has got herself some serious
lauding
.

And why not? Her career is certainly laudatory. She gained her first victory (for the Unicorn) in her very first Palio, in August 1995, under the name Bella Speranza—i.e., Beautiful Hope. Perhaps thinking that her victory negated her name (the hope having been quite splendidly realized), she was rechristened Rose Rosa in time to become a legend among the Caterpillar a year later. After which she retired to a life of ease. Three consecutive Palii, two of which she won … not a bad lifetime average.

When I reach her, she's ambling about the stall that has been specially erected for her, seeming to glory in her celebrity. In fact, I can barely see her due to the adoring
crowd around her; some parents are lifting their children high over the stall's walls to have their photos taken with her. This is one of the indelible traits of the Sienese people: they either love or hate their jockeys, but they
exalt
their horses. In fact, the brucaioli so revere Rose Rosa that the pink rose on their contrada emblem, adjacent to the image of the rampant caterpillar and its crown (denoting its noble status), is now indelibly associated with her; and in fact this bloom seems in retrospect to have been an uncanny prediction of her glorious arrival in the contrada's history.

But this devotion isn't reserved only for victorious mounts. All a horse needs do is race
one
Palio, and it's entitled to spend the rest of its days at a pensionario where, at the expense of the grateful Sienese, it's free to roam and run the meadows to its heart's content (which, as I noted earlier, is the fate currently enjoyed by Elisir). For this reason, the average life span of a Palio horse is an enviable twenty-eight years.

The Sienese have also worked with animal rights groups to set up processes and protocols to prevent accidents and injuries on the track. These include selecting only half-breeds (more adept at the demands of the course than Thoroughbreds), and only between seven and ten years old—as well as instituting no-doping rules and strict veterinary supervision before and after the race. The Sienese protocols have been very successful—it's been a decade since a Palio horse was injured—and have been used as an example by animal rights groups throughout the nation.