—Italian Proverb
“I spent the day with Eliana in Arezzo. Even amidst all the pomp and pageantry it was difficult keeping my eyes from her. I hope that I was not too obvious.”
—Ross Story’s diary
Ross’s phone rang about eight. He was waiting for Eliana’s call. “Pronto.”
“Ross, this is Eliana.”
“Ciao, bella.”
“Ciao. Did I wake you?”
“No, I’ve already been out running.”
“If the invitation is still open we’d like to go with you today.”
“Great, I was hoping you would.”
“I was thinking I could make a picnic supper.”
“You don’t need to go to that much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. There’s a lovely picnic site just past Incisa.”
“What can I bring?”
“Just yourself. When do you think we should leave?”
“Around noon.”
“We’ll come over. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
Eliana and Alessio knocked on Ross’s door shortly before noon. Eliana held a large wicker picnic basket in front of her with both hands. It was a bright day and Eliana wore sleek, Italian sunglasses and a crimson tank top with matching shorts, vibrant against her bronze skin. She wore sandals that laced up past her ankles. She had clearly inherited the fashion sense of the Italians. She always looked different whenever he saw her. She was like a work of art; each time he saw something new in her—each time he saw the same painting in a different way, a perspective that belonged only to him.
“Hi, Alessio.”
“Hi, Mr. Story.”
Alessio wore denim shorts that fell past his knees and a gray T-shirt with the word CIAO in large black letters across the front. He also wore a small backpack, though his most notable accessory was the large grin on his face.
“Can we bring the soccer ball?”
Ross smiled at Eliana. “Of course,” he said, stepping forward to help her. “Here, let me take that.” He lifted the basket from her.
“Thank you. It’s a little heavy.”
They walked outside the courtyard; then Eliana opened the car’s trunk for Ross. He set the basket inside and she handed him her car keys. Ross opened her door while Alessio threw his backpack onto the backseat of the car and followed it in. As soon as they were on the freeway, Alessio began drawing pictures.
Ross glanced up at him in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to be an artist like your mom?” Ross asked.
“Yep,” he said without looking up.
Eliana smiled.
Forty-five minutes later they exited the freeway and headed east toward Arezzo, passing several small hamlets along the way. It was clear they were headed in the right direction, as colorful flags from the different competing quarters hung from the buildings and street corners of the cities they passed.
The weather was beautiful, tranquil blue skies with a few wisps of clouds, and the city was crowded for the event. Arezzo is an ancient city of stone, cold and dour, built as if its primary hope was to keep people out. A modern writer called the city nothing less than a dignified prison.
The closest parking they could find was a half mile from the square, and so Ross put Alessio on his shoulders and they followed the crowds into the city, which had been closed off to all but police cars and foot traffic. The narrow cobble roads, flanked on both sides by stone and stucco buildings, inclined steadily, feeding into the larger roads like tributaries of a river, all leading to and away from the main square—Piazza Grande.
The sounds of drums and trumpets could be heard around them, though in the echo of the stone corridors it was difficult to tell whether they were coming or going. The roads were lined with vendors selling wares brought especially for the day: roast pork or tripe sandwiches, wine and beer, miniature replicas of the Saracen, and scarves and flags representing the individual teams of the competing quarters.
The crowds were equally composed of natives and tourists, along with police and a sampling of those dressed in colorful Renaissance costume of the sixteenth century, when the tournament began.
The tournament has followed the same routine for more than three centuries. It begins with the herald’s proclamation of the event in each corner of the city. This is followed by the parading of the competing teams from parish to parish for the priests’ blessings of their weapons, before meeting in the main square for the culminating event: the jousting competition between the knights.
They arrived in time to see the last of the herald’s proclamations. They stopped at a pizzeria for lunch then wandered around the center of the city, carried along in the flow of the masses, taking in the revelry. They came upon one of the teams as they arrived at a parish church for the blessing of their weapons. They followed the troop on to the cathedral square, where their weapons received the final blessing of the day by the bishop.
As the cathedral bells rang, the crowds moved steadily toward the Piazza Grande. When Ross, Eliana and Alessio arrived, the square was already crowded nearly to capacity, as were all the surrounding buildings. People leaned from windows or gathered on balconies, and flags hung from nearly every window. Flowers, vibrant costumes and large bouquets of balloons were set in bright antithesis to the dull stone of the square.
Running diagonally across the stone square was a thick strip of dirt that had been brought in for the event. The strip was about six yards wide and led to the Saracen—the focal point and namesake of the tournament. The Saracen was a wooden figurine of a bearded Saracen soldier, the ancient enemy of Arezzo.
Eliana spotted a vacant spot on a stone ledge next to the bleachers and they sat down. A half hour later the first of the knights arrived, carrying their lances aloft. They were followed by the foot soldiers, dressed in armor, carrying shields and spears or crossbows. A page, a young boy about Alessio’s age, came next on foot. He was wearing a beautiful purple velvet costume and a hat with feather quills. Then the herald they had seen earlier arrived, on horseback, led by his servant. He stopped in the center of the square and held out a large scroll that he read from, proclaiming the opening of the tournament. He was followed by the sbandieratori, the flag bearers. The flag show lasted the longest of the exhibitions. Flags flew across the square, spun, leapt and flashed like fire, amid the spectacular acrobatics of the bearers. During the performance Alessio pointed heavenward. “Look,” he said. Hundreds of birds were circling immediately above the square, spectators to the proceedings.
The square, already loud with the crowd’s applause and shouts, was suddenly shaken by the blare of trumpets, then the thunder of drums. The band marched into the square, the corps fully dressed in costumes as colorful as a royal flush. The trumpets were more than four feet in length, and tied to each of the silver, fluted instruments was a flag. The music suddenly stopped and the master and vice-master of the field arrived, escorted in on horseback. They spoke briefly to the crowd about the history of the event, then raised their scepters, the sign for the tournament to commence.
When they were done, four men, each in different costume and carrying a lance, stood before the Saracen dummy. They each tested their lance against the Saracen’s shield.
“Who are they?” Eliana asked.
“They’re the captains of the teams. They’re checking the Saracen to make sure that it spins freely.” Ross could tell from her expression that she didn’t understand. “The Saracen is mounted to a pivot. When the knights hit the shield of the Saracen with their lances, the Saracen spins around. Part of their objective is to not get hit by the Saracen’s mace as it swings around.”
“So that’s what he’s holding in his other hand.”
Ross nodded. “In ancient days the balls used to have sharp spikes so you could actually see if the knight got hit. Now they’re just made of leather and judges do the scoring. Much less exciting.”
“Cool,” said Alessio.
Eliana shook her head. “
You men.”
Before the tournament began, the knights lined up flank to flank, the horses and knights wearing matching ceremonial costumes, the effulgent colors of their quarters’ flags. The horses were adorned in blankets and head masks that matched their riders’ outfits. The knights wore uniforms with satin capes and tall, elaborate helmets—some mounted with figurines of saints or animals. Their lances were striped like large candy canes and held aloft like flagpoles—the flag of their quarter attached to the tip.
“Who do you think is going to win?” Ross asked Alessio.
Alessio pointed toward one of the knights. “Him.”
“The blue guy?”
“Yeah.”
“I think the red-and-green man will win,” said Eliana.
“Why?”
“Women’s intuition.”
“Really?”
“That and because his costume is the prettiest. It’s kind of Christmassy.”
“Christmassy? Is that English?”
She playfully hit him. “Who do you think will win then?”
“I’m with Alessio, I think the blue guy.”
“Why him?”
“Because he looks crudele.”
“And cruel people win?”
“In wrestling matches and horse jousting tournaments cruel usually wins.”
“Ten thousand lire says Christmassy does better than crudele.”
He shook her hand. “You’re on.”
The first horse trotted to the end of the dirt trail as the crowd hushed in anticipation. The rider carefully eyed the Saracen, balancing his lance in his hand and beneath his arm while his horse strained at the bit, moving impatiently beneath him.
Then the knight leaned forward and shouted and the horse galloped toward the Saracen, the animal’s legs and head flailing wildly. The knight absorbed his mount’s motion with his legs while the rest of his body remained perfectly still, his eyes and lance focused on the target mounted to the Saracen’s shield. When the lance struck, the crowd erupted. The Saracen spun around, his mace narrowly missing the knight.
Alessio clapped wildly. “Did you see it! Did you see it!”
Ross smiled at his excitement and ran his hand through Alessio’s hair. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah!”
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Eliana said.
“That’s right, you have horses,” Ross answered.
“I was talking about the knights.”
Ross laughed. “You women and your knights.”
She smiled. Then, without word, her hand moved gently into his, as if she were unaware of its action. He looked down at her hand, then closed his hand around hers. A minute later, when she took back her hand to clap for the next knight, his hand felt remarkably empty and cold, as if suddenly deprived of circulation. The sense of her hand still lingered, as though it had left an imprint in his.
One by one the knights charged the Saracen. The crowd grew in noise and excitement, the sound rising, hanging in the air like the dust from the horses’ hooves. Each run seemed faster and more furious than the previous. When all the knights had run, Porta Crucifera was proclaimed the winner and the bleachers emptied into the square to celebrate the winning knights.
Eliana and Ross took Alessio by the hands, and the three of them wound through the crowd back to the car. They drove back toward Rendola, exited the freeway near Incisa, and drove up through San Donato in Collina, to Eliana’s picnic site. As the sun fell toward the horizon, they were alone at the top of a wooded hill overlooking the Valdarno Valley.
There were several tables, and they chose one that was made from a massive stone grinding wheel once used to crush olives for oil. There were wooden benches around it. Ross spread a blanket out over the stone table, and Eliana sat down and began making sandwiches while Ross and Alessio went off together into the nearby forest to gather firewood. They returned with a small bundle of branches that they stacked near a crude fire pit. The sun was setting as Ross sat down next to Eliana at the table.
“How did you find this place?”
“Anna brought me here a few years ago. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “It reminds me of a place I used to camp with my family as a kid.”
Eliana smiled at the thought. It was the first time he had spoken of his childhood, and it pleased her. “With your parents?”
“My parents and stepparents.”
“How were your stepparents?” She glanced over at him. “You don’t mind me asking?”
“No. They were okay.” He paused. “That sounds ungrateful. It wasn’t the best situation. It was hard for them. It’s hard enough raising your own family, let alone having someone else’s on top of that.”
“They already had children?”
“Four.”
“Oh my. Were you treated differently than the others?”
“Yes,” he said hesitantly. “It’s not that they meant to make us feel like an imposition; they just didn’t hide it very well. We felt like guests who had overstayed our welcome. To make matters worse my brother was pretty difficult. He was always rebelling against them. He ran away every few months. One time, when he was sixteen, he just never came back. He ended up living with friends.”
“Do you keep in touch with them now?”
“I did until—” He stopped abruptly.
She glanced up. “Until what?”
“Nothing.” He stepped toward her, his mind fishing for another conversation. “What kind of sandwiches are you making?”
Eliana looked at him. She wondered if subconsciously he wanted to tell her more. Her instinct told her to wait for him—that he would tell her everything when he was ready. Or maybe it was a matter of when she was ready.
She smiled. “A peanut butter sandwich for Alessio. For us there is salami and my not-so-famous PLT.”
“PLT?”
She held a sandwich aloft. “Pancetta, lettuce and tomato. It’s like a BLT only saltier.”
Ross grinned. “I’ll start the fire. Do you need anything else from the car?”
“There’s a grape pie still in the basket.”
“Grape pie?”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve had my grape pie. Actually it’s an American recipe, but living in Chianti, on a vineyard, I couldn’t help but try it.”
“Is it good?”
“Oh, yeah. Trust me.”
Ross brought the grape pie from the car then called for Alessio, who was kicking his soccer ball around the tables.
“Hey, Alessio, want to help me make a fire?”
“Can I?” He glanced toward his mother, who had indoctrinated him with the evils of matches and fires since he was old enough to know what they were.
“You can help,” she said. “But be careful.”
“I will.”
Ross showed Alessio how to start a fire by building a tepee with small twigs and filling it with wood chips.
He looked at Alessio seriously. “Remember, don’t try this at home,” he said. He glanced at Eliana for approval. She smiled at him.
“Okay, sir.”
After finishing supper, they sat around the fire eating grape pie, talking and then laughing as Alessio reenacted the jousting tournament. They stayed at the picnic site until the night was cool and pitch-black around them, the dying fire glowing orange and white, with occasional sparks rising in the air like fireflies. The sound of frogs and insects grew loud.
Alessio had trouble keeping his eyes open and leaned sleepily against Eliana. Still Eliana procrastinated. It had been a good day. She didn’t want it to end. For the first time in years she felt like part of a family—the way she always thought it should feel. Finally Ross kicked out the fire and carried Alessio to the car, while Eliana piled everything else into the picnic basket. Alessio stretched out across the backseat.
He was asleep by the time they arrived at the villa. Ross carried him upstairs to his bed while Eliana pulled down the sheets. She tucked him in, kisse
d his forehead, and then Ross and Eliana descended the stairs together. As Ross walked to the front door, Eliana said, “Not so fast. You still owe me.”
“For?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten our bet. My knight won.”
“Oh, right. The one you chose because it was pretty. No, Christmassy.” He reached for his wallet. “Ten thousand lire.”
“Christmassy beats crudele. Remember that. And let’s make that dollars, not lire.”
“That will only take me about six months to earn,” he said. Then he added, “Thanks for coming with me. It’s been a good day.”
“It has been a good day. Thank you for inviting us. We’re surrounded by this amazing culture and we never go out and do anything anymore.”
She looked at him, her eyes shining. “I’m glad you came to Rendola, Ross.”
Ross just looked into her face. He smiled, and for a moment neither of them knew what to say, though this time it wasn’t awkward. Then Ross asked, “Another session tomorrow?”
“I can’t tomorrow. Anna gets back from the sea.”
“Anna, I’d almost forgotten about her.”
“Then Wednesday we begin the grape harvest. Would you like to join Alessio and me? We only go out for a couple hours.”
“I’d love to. What time does it start?”
“Eight o’clock a.m.”
He made a mental note. “Eight o’clock Wednesday. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Good night, Ross.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. This time he put his arms around her and held her against him, her body warm and soft against his. The gesture surprised Eliana, but she didn’t move away.
“Good night, Eliana.”
Her voice was lower, almost a whisper, “Good night, Ross.”
Back in his apartment, he wrote in his journal then lay in bed and looked at the ceiling, recounting the day. All the noise and excitement and pageantry seemed to pale against Eliana. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so good. Then he suddenly could. It was the last time he had fallen in love.
CHAPTER 16
The Last Promise Page 14
