Seven Seasons in Siena (15 page)

Suddenly the atmosphere turns electric, and I realize why a stray American visitor wandering the perimeter of the room doesn't raise even a scintilla of interest. Trecciolino and Gingillo are, by the standards of the contrada, megastars. I feel it myself; after all, I witnessed firsthand two of the three victories these men are responsible for, and now here they are, close enough to touch.

Dario arrives just in time for this portion of the evening, and he too is starry-eyed at the sight of the two great fantini. We make a place for him at the table, which is easily enough done because a lot of people have got up and moved to where they can get a better view of the guests of honor. And they're worth seeing; Gingillo is a lean, fine-boned, almost pre-Raphaelite presence, though clearly with sinews of iron; and Trecciolino is a dark, smoldering matinee-idol type with the body of a bantamweight boxer. Just sitting there, they've got the crowd riveted. The risen Christ Himself could descend in a pillar of light and start playing bongos in the garden, and not a head would turn.

Gianni looks quite happy that the focus is off him tonight, since with the two fantini here it isn't likely that anyone's going to be putting him under the spotlight. But before he turns the mic over to the stars, he cues up a video replay of the last three victories.

Now, I'm dead certain that everyone in this room was either present at these races or has seen them many times since on television, or both. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if they all knew every move of every horse at every moment of each race. Yet when the footage comes up on the monitor, it's as though they're all seeing it for the first time. There's shouting, gasping, cheering—and, at the end, wild applause. The mark of an exceptionally good drama, I think, is that it fully engages you even when you know how it ends. In that sense, the Palio is, for the brucaioli—for
all
the Sienese—an utterly compelling civic narrative, a kind of creation myth that just keeps on unfolding. They write two new chapters every summer, in big, broad strokes, then spend the rest of the year annotating.

Which brings us to the question-and-answer session, during which the fantini are peppered by a wide range of questions, some of them staggeringly specific (“Okay, I want to ask about your second time around the pass of San Martino, which was after the Dragon's rider had fallen off and you had the chance to really close in on the Goose….”), some of which are intended to raise a laugh (“Now that we've given you two wins, if you ride for us again will you give us a discount?”), and one or two of which are uncomfortably loaded (“Who would you say is more responsible for your victories, you or the captain?”). It's all amiably high-spirited, even when the contrada's resident dipsomaniac, nicknamed Caio Buio, stands up and begins a rambling account that's part conjecture, part anecdote, part personal memory. Eventually the crowd starts to heckle him, and Giuliano shouts past me,
“Soggetto! Soggetto!”
—“Get to the point!” Caio Buio gives up with a shrug and sits back down. Personally, I think his enthusiasm just got the better of him; faced with his idols, he merely sought, as so many do, to claim their notice. But what most interests me is that, in this atmosphere of utter egalitarianism, it isn't Caio Buio's presence that sparks foment; it isn't his audacity in putting himself forward; it's his momentary descent into stream of consciousness. Elsewhere in the world, someone like him might fall through the cracks of society, but here, he belongs. He has a place. And no one can ever take it away from him.

Certainly there
is
a hierarchy within the contrada, but it's almost invisible to my eyes, and it seems based on something other than education or profession. It's more a meritocracy of the spirit. Those who are most willing to make themselves available to the others—who smile the most, shake the most
hands, circulate and converse—seem to wear the green, gold, and blue with the most authority. By now I've come to recognize several of them, including more than a few I haven't even met yet.

On the drive back to Dario's house I ask about Salvatore Ladu, more familiarly known as Cianchino, the jockey who won the 1996 Palio and ended the contrada's forty-one-year losing streak. If there's a superhero for the Caterpillar, he has to be it. Dario tells me that in fact he had his two sons baptized in the contrada but hasn't been seen much there since. He's too busy at his own establishment, a pub in the area called Bar Valli. I make a note to try and get there for a drink.

Meantime, Dario tells me I'm in luck: there's another event in Società tomorrow, and another the night after that. I'm delighted to hear this, though a little surprised. “I thought the official contrada year was over,” I say.

He looks at me oddly. “Well … yes,” he says, as if having to explain this to a backward child. “But immediately after the contrada year ends, the new contrada year begins. There will be plenty of things going on: parties, dinners, celebrations….” And he starts rattling them off, like a litany of glee. “There's the cena of the
sonetti
, the
cena degli auguri
, the
cena di Carnevale
, the
cena della stalla
that's held at the stables….”

This is when jet lag finally claims me. I drift into a kind of semiconsciousness in which the headlamps of the oncoming cars become party lights and the sound of distant laughter rings in my ears. By the time we arrive, I feel as though I've not only heard about those celebrations but lived through them all, one right after another.

…

 
I SPEND MOST OF THE NEXT DAY ACCOMPANYING DARIO
on his various rounds. It's a busy time for his olive oil business (called Rasna after the ancient Etruscans), as this year's pressing is now ready to ship. New oil is a highly sought commodity—you see signs for it everywhere;
olio nuovo
—and with very good reason: it's absolutely freaking out-of-this-world delicious. The texture and weight are essentially the same as what we're used to in the United States, but the flavor is much stronger and more complex, both fruitier and pepperier. As with the best wine, the oil alters with exposure to the air, so the same bottle will taste slightly different at the end of the meal than it did at the beginning. November isn't traditionally a big month for tourism in Italy, but believe me, if people knew about
olio nuovo
, they'd be tripping over each other to get here.

Those who are in the know but can't make the trip pay a premium to order the oil right after it's pressed, and Dario is engaged in an ongoing, frenetic cycle of bottling, labeling, invoicing, and shipping. I lend a hand to the extent I'm able, but since I'm coming into the process late, the time it takes him to instruct me in anything is almost better spent doing it himself.

At the end of the day he's pretty thoroughly wiped out, so to relax he cracks open a bottle of Sangiovese and pops in a DVD of the 2003 victory celebrations. Earlier in the day I'd mentioned to him how seeing the race replayed at dinner last night had recalled the parade we'd happened to catch a few days later.

“Which parade?” he'd asked.

“The one around the Campo,” I said. “After the victory.”

“I know, but—what was the theme?”

“Music,” I'd reminded him, amazed he could forget such a thing. “Because Berio the horse shares his name with Berio the composer. Remember? You were dressed as a penguin. And playing a flute. I also seem to recall a lack of pants.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “
That
one.”

I blinked. “Was there any other?”

“Oh, Rob,” he'd said with a laugh; “don't you know the contrada by now?” In fact, I learned, there were more than half a dozen parades in the Piazza del Campo, each with a specific theme and held on consecutive days. And of course, in true Caterpillar style, they're all minutely documented—as I discover now, with the DVD unfolding before me.

The first parade took place the morning after the race. The jubilant brucaioli marched to drums and flutes and visited all the other contrade in triumph. “All of them?” I ask. “Even the Giraffe?”

“Technically we are no longer rivals,” he says, “so yes, we visit the Giraffe.” Then he adds, with a wry glint in his eye, “But we went there very early, before anyone was up.” I laugh, and he says, “But in fact we don't visit all the contrade. We omit the Dragon and the Goose.”

“Why?”

“We have no relationship with either of them. And the Goose actually discourages it. They don't march themselves when they win; and they don't want any other victors to come to them.”

I purse my lips. “Friendly bunch.”

“They're quite odd in a number of ways. For instance, their feud with the Tower is the only rivalry not between neighboring contrade; they don't share a border. Also, in every other contrada, women can—and do—hold high offices. In the Goose, they can't even vote. In fact, some the women of the Goose have stopped going to assemblies in protest.”

“Wow. That's … what's the word? Reactionary?”

“They're not just the only governing body in Siena to exclude women; they're the only governing body in all of Europe.” He shrugs. “It doesn't seem to faze them. Even when people call them the
contrada infamona.
”

By now my attention is caught by the on-screen goings-on; the scene has changed to a new parade circling the Campo that has an unmistakably Yuletide theme. “Whoa,” I say, “did we just jump forward a couple months?”

“No; this is the parade of August twentieth.”

A posse of fur-draped carolers saunters by the camera. “But,” I sputter in protest, “Siena in August is, like, a hundred degrees in the shade. Why would they choose a Christmas theme?”

“It was to taunt the other contrade. The message is ‘
We
won the Palio, but
you
don't have anything to celebrate till December.' ” All I can say is, if what I see before me is a taunt, it's got to be one of the more elaborately orchestrated in human history. The revelers are costumed as Santa Claus
(known here as Babbo Natale), elves, and angels; two women are dressed as the Virgin Mary, one of them visibly pregnant, and hold up signs reading
MARIA PRIMA
and
MARIA DOPO
(“Mary before” and “Mary after”). There are floats both large and small: gingerbread houses, gift-wrapped packages, igloos from the North Pole, you name it. And of course there's music throughout, holiday carols as well as the familiar contrada themes.

The scene now switches to the “musical maestro” parade, which is the one Jeffrey and I caught. Once again I get to witness Dario's waddling performance
senza pantaloni
. (“Why exactly
were
you pantsless?” I ask. His reply: “They wouldn't stay on.”) As impressed as I was the first time around, I'm more so this time, for one significant reason. “This was the
day after
the Christmas-themed march?”

He nods as he swirls the wine in his glass. “Each night there was a dinner, where we would decide on the next day's theme. And then we would get to work.”

Several hundred people deciding on a theme and then implementing it in one night—
after
dinner? This seems like a logistical impossibility to me. “Who coordinates that?”

“The Committee of Joy,” he says; Silvia's people. If anyone could pull off a superhuman stunt like a new parade every day, it's her. And speaking of which, here comes the next in the chronology.…

“Elegant dress,” Dario says. “We all wore our best attire.” There are women in gowns, men in dinner jackets. A jazz band plays. Everyone looks sensational. I look for, and don't find, Luigina; but I can just imagine.

Another scene change. “The fifth day,” Dario says.
“ ‘How We Used to Be.' Everyone dressed as they would in 1955, which was our last win before 1996.” This intrigues me, because a majority of the marchers can't have been born till long after the fifties; but everyone gets into the spirit of the thing, with poodle skirts and leather jackets and flower-print housedresses and hats. Some of them carry giant deckle-edged frames around their torsos, as though they're Polaroid snapshots. Once again, music resonates everywhere, including a large dollop of midcentury hits. It's slightly surreal but completely enchanting.

“Sixth day,” Dario narrates as the next segment commences, “ ‘All the World Is Yellow, Green, and Blue.' ” In other words, international costumes in Caterpillar colors: Dutch girls with windmills, bullfighters with bulls, Eskimos with igloos, a Chinese dragon … it's all here, and it's all in the Bruco hues. Spectacular.

The seventh day's theme is technically “The Caterpillar Through the Centuries,” but by now the standards seem to have relaxed, allowing for some fairly shaggy interpretations. I mean, there's an Egyptian mummy—predating the contrada's origin by a millennium or two—and some Flintstones characters as well, which either refers to prehistory (exacerbating the Egyptian problem) or the cartoons of the past few decades. The appearance of several members of the Simpsons seems to argue for the latter, but then I have to wonder what they were doing there at all; though with that hair, Marge Simpson could almost pass as a yellow, blue, and green caterpillar.