“Someone should talk to the Englishman,” said the woman knowingly, adding sotto voce to Scottie, “The boy posed for an artist, an English lord. Sebastian Gordon.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Scottie, also whispering. “Someone should talk to him.”
“Listen, we’re going for a digestivo,” said the man as he paid their bill. “Over in the Istrice contrada. Would you like to join us?”
Scottie looked at the swirl of people in the piazza. The noise was growing, and the drums had accelerated. Ecco had awakened and was staring up at her. Every contrada was known by a symbol—eagle, caterpillar, seashell, dragon. The Istrice, or porcupine, was Robertino’s contrada. This couple were sophisticated and stylish and Italian, and they were talking to her, not talking down to her. They could be friends. They could help her find the boy.
All of Scottie’s training told her to defer to her husband. But she knew he’d say no.
“We’d love to,” she said. She didn’t look at Michael, just rose up with a smile, leaving him to pay the bill and follow.
10.
As if running into Julie wasn’t bad enough for one night, who was sitting at the table next to them at dinner? Rodolfo Marchetti, the Red journalist who was always bashing all things American. Scottie, to Michael’s shock, struck up a goddamn conversation with Marchetti and his wife. Then, to put a cherry on the sundae of his week, Scottie revealed to Marchetti she was actively looking for Robertino. And it was worse than that. Marchetti was writing a story on the disappearance of Robertino. He talked about Lord Sebastian Gordon, Luce’s pal that Duncan had pointed out at the Borghese. Michael was terrified Marchetti would discover a connection between himself and Robertino and print something. Wild rumors were flying, and all he needed was a journalist sniffing around his door, with the arms shipment arriving any minute. Michael watched Scottie talk to Marchetti and his wife about Robertino as if she were goddamn Myrna Loy in the goddamn Thin Man. How does she know all this? was Michael’s first thought, followed by I recruited the son of a Nazi. His mother is a dead prostitute. Mafia. Drugs. Shit. Shit. Shit.
11.
The couple’s names were Rodolfo and Fiammetta. Fiammetta was from Milan, but Rodolfo was born here, in Siena, and the Istrice was his contrada. Scottie found them utterly charming.
They walked up Via Banchi di Sopra until they came upon an amazingly beautiful scene, like something out of a dream, she thought. The red, white, blue and black arabesques of the Porcupine contrada’s flags were draped from the buildings along the narrow street, barely wide enough for four people to stand shoulder to shoulder. Striped sconces on either side of every doorway held candles. A long, long table had been set up, an uninterrupted length of white tablecloth and a mixed assortment of chairs apparently borrowed from every kitchen in the area. It seemed to stretch for blocks. More candles in huge candelabras lit the table, and abundant wine bottles with the porcupine logo were interspersed with large baskets of bread. People were just beginning to sit down, greeting each other with boisterous ciaos and pouring the wine. They all wore neckerchiefs with the Istrice logo on them.
Scottie hesitated, feeling they were intruding, but Rodolfo cheerily towed them all forward.
“He loves showing it all off,” said Fiammetta. “Sienese pride, you know.”
“Venite, venite,” said a woman Scottie recognized as the old woman with the broom they had seen the day they arrived in Siena. She had seen her since then, scurrying around Signor Banchi’s house, though she would never look at or talk to Scottie. Banchi called her Nonna Bea, and so, it seemed, did everyone else. For the special occasion Nonna Bea had donned a slighter lighter shade of black.
“Is Signor Banchi coming tonight?” Scottie asked her.
The old woman shook her head as if the idea were absurd.
“We have American guests,” said Rodolfo to a huge burly man in a spattered chef’s apron, the capitano of the contrada. People were staring at them.
The man gave them a broad smile. “Welcome to Istrice!” Immediately they found themselves seated near the head of the table. As women began to appear out of arched doorways carrying huge steaming plates of tortelli with butter and sage, the captain of the contrada took his place at the head of the table. Scottie tried to say they had already eaten, but the women with the trays of pasta were unstoppable, and she found herself digging into a second dinner as the toasts began. First there was a long, laughing discussion of the benefits of being a porcupine, which ended with a ribald joke about sex. Scottie felt herself blush.
“Can you follow all this?” asked Michael.
“Yes,” she said. “Most of it.”
There followed some more in-jokes about the contrada’s alliances with Bruco (Caterpillar), Chiocciola (Snail) and Civetta (Owl), and their arch rivalry with Lupa (Wolf), with whom they shared a boundary. As if on cue, some wolf howls from a distant rooftop could be heard. The Istriciani booed them merrily.
Drummers marched through, the percussion almost unbearable in the enclosed space, and then flag wavers, all teenage boys in bright medieval costume. A rather uncomfortable-looking man in a suit of armor accepted a plate of pasta from Nonna Bea but could not sit down.
The voices of the noisy diners echoed off the stone streets and brick buildings, and Scottie felt the wine going to her head. The candles seemed brighter and the laughter louder. She hoped Michael wasn’t too angry she had dragged him here.
At a seemingly preappointed and highly anticipated moment, the captain of the contrada stood up and banged his glass for silence. Amazingly, the crowd quieted. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Ecco, at her feet, pricked his ears. The crowd seemed to hold its breath, and then the captain opened his arms and began to sing. “Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma…” A woman with long black ringlets appeared behind him, playing the violin.
His voice was perfect, and Scottie felt the hairs on her neck and arms go up.
“Tu pure, o Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza, guardi le stelle che tremano d’amore, e di speranza!”
It felt like he was singing to her: “Oh princess, in your cold room, look at the stars that tremble with love and hope!”
Michael, too, seemed enraptured by the man’s voice and by his words. She was oddly moved to see him caught up in the music, as if she had found something deeply human in him at last. A way in. She took his hand, and he squeezed hers.
“Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me; il nome mio nessun saprà! No, no! Sulla tua bocca lo dirò quando la luce splenderà!” My secret is locked inside me; no one knows my name. No, no! To your mouth I will tell it when the light shines!
I’ve never been more alive in my entire life, thought Scottie.
“All’alba vincerò … vincerò … vinceeeeeeeerò!”
The crowed erupted in screams of ecstasy. Children pounded the table with their fists. Men leapt up and surrounded the captain, thumping him on the back.
“That was something,” said Michael. Scottie laughed at the understatement.
Next up was an entire roast pig, carried out by four men and carved to great cheers, followed by a speech by a man introduced as Acting Mayor Vestri. He must be the one who had stepped in when the other mayor, Manganelli, had his fatal car accident. Scottie studied the man as he delivered a paean to honor and glory. He was a sharp contrast to Ugo—in his sixties, she guessed, thin and bent slightly like a shrimp, wearing a black suit and red tie. He had jowls, a short straight line of a mouth, large, thick glasses and a high-pitched, nasal voice. There was something oily about him. He looked corrupt.
“I’d love to meet the mayor,” Michael said to Rodolfo.
Rodolfo called Vestri over after his speech, and Michael introduced himself. “I have a Ford tractor business here in town,” he said.
Vestri studied Michael with his little eyes. “You are Sicilian?” he asked cautiously.
“My parents,” said Michael. “I’m from New York.”
“New York!” crowed the ma
n, and grasped his hand. “We are always excited about doing business with America. Come see me sometime.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Michael said. Vestri smiled, his hooded eyes dancing with what Scottie realized was greed. This is how men work, she thought. It’s deals and handshakes. Backscratching. Of course, on some level she had always known it, but she had never imagined Michael in this world. It impressed her to see this new side of him.
Each member of the Palio team was introduced except for the horse, who they said was sleeping, which Scottie doubted since he was stabled only a few doors down from the ruckus. The jockey was hailed as a gift from God, and his praises sung. He was cautioned against taking bribes, which he solemnly swore to ignore on the soul of his mother. He was guarded by three men who let no one get near him.
“They’re serious, aren’t they,” said Michael, leaning across to Rodolfo. “A rival contrada might get to him? Hurt him?”
“They’re not as much afraid of him being hurt as being bribed,” said Rodolfo. “It’s all part of the game. Secret emissaries sneak around all night, tossing messages tied to rocks, sending cash hidden in women’s bras, all in order to throw the race.”
“Isn’t it more fun just to let the best horse win?” asked Scottie.
They all shook their heads at that.
“Oh, honey,” said Michael.
12.
Michael felt off balance all night, trapped in a funhouse mirror. He stared at the acting mayor, Vestri. This was the man he had to give fifty thousand dollars to. And Marchetti—the journalist he had to either flip for real or hide from in plain sight. He hadn’t had to find them, befriend them, because Scottie had done it all for him, without even meaning to.
13.
A small, wiry red-haired kid was at last produced. Il barbaresco, they announced. The groom. Rather than universal cheers, there was some grumbling. Scottie thought he looked a little devious. Had he somehow gotten Robertino out of the picture?
“I know we are all praying for the safe return of Robertino Banchi,” said the captain, quieting the unruly crowd. “But in the meantime, we must support the boy who has volunteered to take his place.” The groom smiled and waved and slunk off to chat with the men standing and smoking off to the side, clearly not sorry at all to be in this honored position at the expense of the missing boy.
Scottie’s eye caught Nonna Bea on the edge of the crowd. She was staring at the groom. She lurched forward and limped up to him and started screaming in his face.
“Vergognati! Vergognati!” For shame! She jabbed a bony finger into his chest. At first the crowd was surprised into silence, then started laughing. Embarrassed, the groom shouted back at Nonna Bea, who was not letting up.
“Shut up! Shut up! Zitta!” he screamed.
Scottie felt Michael stiffen next to her. She gathered Ecco under her arm.
The crowd found the groom’s shouting disrespectful, but the boy took their silence for approval and raised his fist to strike Nonna Bea. At this, a mass of men went for him, then started punching each other. Chairs were overturned. Women screamed, but also egged on their men.
“Let’s go,” said Michael, grabbing Scottie’s arm.
Scottie shook him off and grabbed Nonna Bea with her free hand and pulled her out of the mix as she tried to kick at the groom.
“Signora, stop,” said Scottie. Ecco was barking and squirming.
“Never!” shouted the old woman. “He was jealous of Robertino! What have you done?” she shouted at the boy.
Someone lurched toward Scottie, and Michael reacted with a move so quick she couldn’t quite figure out what he did. The other man was suddenly lying on his back, breathless.
Again Michael pulled at Scottie. “For God’s sake,” he said. “Let’s go.”
There were whistles and more shouting, and a trio of carabinieri, led by Tenente Pisano, arrived at a run.
He unholstered his pistol and fired into the air.
“I hate the Palio,” Scottie heard him mutter as she slunk past him, avoiding his eye.
14.
“Tractor parts?” asked Brigante, startling Michael. The rain was pounding on the metal roof of the warehouse. What was he doing here? Wasn’t Palio Day a local goddamn holiday for everyone? Except, of course, Brigante wasn’t Sienese; he was from Milan. He wouldn’t give a hoot about the Palio. The arms cache had been delivered last night while the city drank and sang, six crates stenciled ATTREZZATURA AGRICOLA—agricultural equipment. Under a layer of radiators and carburetors were disassembled machine guns and packets of explosives that looked like innocent modeling clay of the type he had made his mother a crèche from as a child.
Michael had no idea how the crates had gotten through customs, or if some boat had just unloaded them at night. Someone was certainly bribed, he thought. Even though he knew a disassembled gun could not shoot, they still felt dangerous to him.
“Yes,” said Michael. “Tractor parts.”
“So you’re a mechanic, too?”
“No. I’ll sell these to mechanics.”
“Oh. Have you ever visited a prostitute?” asked Brigante, leaning in the doorway and lighting a cigarette. Italians smoked incessantly, even more than Americans.
“What? No,” said Michael.
“That’s what I thought. But if you decide to try it, there’s a new girl who stands in a pullout on the road to Grosseto who is fantastic. She’s from Naples. They know things down there.”
“Aren’t you worried about diseases?”
“I dip my dick in grappa afterwards. There are boys, too.”
“What?”
“I’m not saying you like boys, or I like boys. Heaven forbid. But there are boys.”
“Don’t the police do anything?”
Brigante laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “The police and the politicians are the best customers.” He ducked back out into the rain, protecting his cigarette with his hand.
Michael wondered if Brigante knew something. Was Brigante a spy himself? He had a flash of hitting Brigante over the head with the butt of a machine gun, burying his body.
Jesus, he thought. Making the world safe for democracy is a goddamn hard job.
* * *
He planned to bury the arms cache in a forest, making sure no one was around and marking the spot on his map with an X, like the pirate’s treasure maps in the books his brother had read him when he was little. Marco was both unbearably kind and unbearably cruel to the point where Michael, even looking back, could not distinguish between the two.
“You and me, we’re going to get out of here and have adventures,” his brother had said, sitting on the edge of his bed, seeming so grown up, sixteen to Michael’s four. The rumble of the Third Avenue El made the water in Michael’s glass shake. “Like Jim Hawkins.”
“I can really come, too?” Michael said.
“Sure. Somebody’s gotta swab the decks and clean the parrot cage.” Marco laughed.
Marco joined the army the morning after Pearl Harbor, and sent vivid letters home until a German bullet ripped through him on January 20, 1944, about two hundred miles south of where Michael was now standing, shovel in hand, crates of guns and explosives under his feet, cached in preparation for the next war.
He wished his brother were here now, so he could ask him if he had ever questioned his orders, if he ever had a moment’s doubt. Though, Michael thought with a smile, he would probably dunk his head in the toilet for asking.
INTERMEZZO
Thunderstorms turned the sky shades of gray so dark it looked black and blue, as if bruised. In the stormy wet chaos and sodden, steaming crowds of Palio Day, no one—or so he thought—noticed an American with a briefcase joining the acting mayor briefly in the window of a building overlooking Piazza del Campo owned by Monte dei Paschi, the venerable bank. All the Catholic dignitaries of the city were there, enjoying the seven-hundred-year-old race held in honor of the Virgin Mary. Tradition, religion, celebration. T
he semblance of “always.” Had the American’s wife looked across the piazza at that moment, she might have recognized her husband in his aviator sunglasses, pale linen suit and white Borsalino. As the mayor and the American stared out at the jubilant crowds enduring the hours-long Corteo Storico, a parade of drummers, archers, flag bearers, trumpeters, contrada floats, and the carroccio pulled by oxen carrying the Palio banner, a bolt of lightning cracked above the Torre del Mangia. At that moment, a briefcase changed hands. It was that simple.
After that, the American left the gates of the city and, in pouring rain, drove to the abandoned zona industriale. He backed his Ford Fairlane through the large doors into the showroom of his office. He waited until no one—or so he thought—would notice him loading large wooden crates into the spacious trunk. No tractors would be sold today.
The American drove out into the countryside. When the rain stopped and the sky turned blue again, he pulled off the road in a secluded spot. Removing his pale linen suit and hat, he donned coveralls and took a shovel from the trunk. He dug a deep hole in the rain-softened earth, sweating in the summer heat and swatting at mosquitoes and small biting flies. He carefully placed the crates in the hole, covered it up, washed his hands and face with two bottles of Acqua Panna he had brought with him, and changed back into his suit.
The Palio went to Aquila, the Eagle.
TEN
LA TARTUCA, THE TORTOISE
“STRENGTH AND CONSTANCY ENJOINED”
JULY 3, 1956
1.
Scottie made toast and eggs for Michael, who was reading his newspaper in silence. Why do girls swoon over the idea of marriage? she thought. Because they’re fed a pack of lies about what it is. She was worried about him, but had no idea how to say that without compromising his masculinity, making him feel like she had seen weakness. At the Palio dinner he had thrown that man down like a rag doll, but then tossed and turned all night. He had spent the day at his office, even though she pointed out that it was very unlikely anyone would buy a tractor on Palio Day. Maybe he was furious about the brawl the night before. But how would she know, if he never said anything? She wished she could pry open his head and see inside.
The Italian Party Page 17
