by April Smith
We turn away from the fountain, down a steep side street.
“Did you want to be baptized into Oca?” “It was a bit strange, but they consider it an honor.” “That’s what I mean. You’re obviously a smart, independent woman, but it seems like Nicoli runs your life.” “It only looks that way,” she says, then smiles quickly.
“I’m not making any judgments — I’ve been there with men — but I’m concerned. After we spoke at the embassy, I went on the Internet and read about the affair he had with this mafia person who disappeared.” “That was difficult, but we worked it out.” “You worked it out about the mistress?” “Yes.”
“But what about the mafias? Cecilia — do you know if he’s involved?” “Okay, stop.”
“Here’s why I’m asking. Do you feel like you’re in any danger?” She jerks her head in surprise. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Not at all.” And she shoves me through a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway. Inside, a dank, cavelike store is presided over by a crone in black.
“I’m going to show you the best porcini mushrooms in Tuscany. I’m fine. Stop always being FBI.” By the time the guests arrive at the abbey it is night and the floodlit stone walls stand out in relief against the pitch-black sky. There is no roof above the half-dozen tables draped in white and laden with bowls of white roses. The women are glittering, in shoulder-length earrings, jackets woven with gold, long iridescent satin dresses, hammered bronze bracelets, and crystal-encrusted stiletto heels. The men look even more exotic; I have never before seen silk pajamas worn underneath a tuxedo jacket. They’re shaven-headed with a tiny earring or — like Nicosa — breathtakingly tailored in dark pinstripes. And the faces! Filled with character and power.
They are the ruling class — bankers and industrialists, with a couple of hungry writers and art dealers prowling the edges — whose belief in themselves and in their accomplishments seems to make them untouchable by the facts: uncollected garbage two stories high in Naples, human trafficking of eastern Europeans, reprisal murders in broad daylight, Chinese gangsters moving counterfeit goods at will, even the time-honored kidnapping for ransom of executives or their wives, are believed to be a “southern sickness,” of little consequence to the sophisticated north. The ruddy and rouged faces are a smiling blur of civility. The business at hand is to score points with their hosts in the high-stakes tally of social influence, as volatile here as it is in Los Angeles.
Cecilia takes me around. I get a quick handshake, and she gets a soulful exchange in Italian. I am the sidebar; she is the star. Her hair is up in a loose tangle, which emphasizes the diamond hoop earrings and the square neckline of a black sheath with spaghetti straps that turn into chains of gold snakes.
I have worked protection for celebrities who are addicted to the spotlight and can’t get enough, who will preen for anyone who stops them in the street, but that is not Cecilia. She is tense and keeps looking at her watch. I get the sense that she plays this role for Nicosa — for their marriage — but it does not come naturally, especially because she has been preoccupied about Giovanni, who still has not shown up at the party.
She had told me he would be there when we were in her closet. She had tried to talk me out of the brown wrap dress I bought in London with an invitation to enter her private oasis (where I couldn’t miss the price tag on the Roberto Cavalli snake-strap dress — about two thousand U.S. dollars), an enchanted forest of flirtatious fabrics, large enough to have its own window with a writing desk beneath. She kept plucking out hangers and murmuring, “This is your color,” although I had no idea why it was my color. The dresses scared me. I was afraid of ruining one just by putting it on. They had intricate linings you had to pull down carefully, or step into without catching a thread. I thought she was trying awfully hard to make this experiment in couture work. Her clothes were too tight in the waist and too wide in the hips for me, pointing out the disparities in our figures — and that after all, this sister thing might just turn out to be a bad fit.
She had been inflated and boastful that unlike most teenagers, Giovanni is so reliable; her friends are envious of how grown up he is; and how she loves to show him off. She might have also expected to show off the guest of honor, but the brown dress was an embarrassment. Losing patience when in spite of her luxurious offerings I kept saying, “No thanks,” she became the bossy pain in the ass sister Dennis had described, saying, “Never buy cheap things; it’s a waste of money!” and “You should start wearing makeup and look like a woman!” But now, in the sensuous candlelight of the outdoor party, as we chat with yet another diva with flat-ironed blond hair and blackened eyes, a white halter showing the crescents of her breasts (“They all think they’re Donatella Versace,” according to Cecilia), I feel like a little brown squirrel in the cheap brown dress. Like everyone else, the wannabe Donatella is obsessed with Palio. Which horse is best? Which jockey will ride for Oca? What is Cecilia cooking for the contrada dinner, a preposterous-sounding undertaking where the women convene in the kitchen of their contrada headquarters and whip up dinner for two thousand members — and the horse — seated at tables set up in the street. From whose apartment in the Piazza del Campo will they watch the tratta and the prova? It’s like listening to folks planning a tailgate party when you don’t understand football.
Luckily, Sofri arrives to save me.
Nicosa’s business partner, the brilliant scientist, turns out to be a white-haired, impeccable dandy with a hooked aristocratic nose and a folded square of green and white Oca silk in the pocket of a blue blazer.
“Sofri is the secret to our success,” Cecilia says, kissing him on both cheeks.
He graces me with a luminous smile. “It is a delight to meet your beautiful sister. Has the signorina seen much of Siena?” he asks Cecilia. “It would be my pleasure to show her. You must please be my guest for Palio.” “I’d love to. Nicoli told me you invented a new coffee bean. How do you invent a coffee bean?” He leans forward, speaking intimately. “The breakthrough came when I was able to decode the coffee genome. Then it was a matter of identifying the genes that produce characteristics of sweetness. But my passion is to create new recipes using coffee — far beyond the usual,” he says, and his eyes grow big, as if he were describing a distant galaxy.
“Like what?”
“For example, rabbit loins stuffed with liver and coated in coffee. You will taste them tonight!” It takes a moment to come up with a suitably Italian response: “Beautiful!” He grasps my hand and leads me through the party, making introductions, replenishing my glass. Holding hands with an elderly gentleman feels very European.
“How is it to be the guest of honor inside the home of one of the greatest hostesses in Tuscany? I cannot imagine what it would be like if I, for example, discovered that I had a brother I had never met — and then found out he lives like this!” I laugh. “It has been quite a ride.” “Not to insult you,” he adds quickly. “Maybe you, too, live in an historic monument.” I am about to joke that I live in the Federal Building, but, remembering my promise to Cecilia, I put the brakes on just in time.
“I’m between addresses now,” I say.
“What work do you do?”
“I’m in security,” I reply, with what I hope looks like a sincere smile.
“I’m sorry — do you mean banking?” “Protecting banks. Alarm systems.” His eyebrows rise. “Interessante. I would have thought fashion.” Involuntarily I look down at the brown dress. “Really?” “Of course, bella! You know, you look just like your sister? Both of you are intelligent and lovely women. I adore her. And now I have the pleasure of knowing you!” Sofri releases the pressure on my hand with a sigh of satisfaction, and I feel that I have met my prince — never mind that he is fifty years older than I am, and that I’m in love with Sterling. His courtliness makes me feel special. The other half of the equation, of course, is my appreciation of his masculine ability to charm. I am thrilled by the novelty of what promises to be an old-fashioned,
chivalrous relationship; without the need to conquer, we are free to become great friends.
At one point, behind our wineglasses, we find ourselves watching Cecilia, who is standing alone in the smashing black dress and listening in dismay to a message on her cell phone.
“She looks worried,” I say. “She hasn’t heard from Giovanni.” “I know. I told her it is to be expected.” “Isn’t it kind of a slap in the face to his parents not to show up?” “Normally yes, but not during Palio.” “Because Giovanni’s out partying?” “Fighting.”
“Fighting! For what? Defending the antipasti?” Waiters have appeared with fried artichokes, marinated mushrooms, dried beef drizzled with olive oil, cured mussels, mozzarella and tomato and basil, plates stacked all the way up their arms.
“Each contrada has a blood rival. Our enemy is Torre, the Tower. If a young man enters the zone between Torre and Oca, it means a fight. Love for one’s contrada is equal only to hatred for one’s enemy,” he says passionately. “You will find guests from different contrade here tonight, but never from Torre. Never.” Sofri removes the silk square from his breast pocket and pats the moisture at his temples. You have to love this guy. He takes everything seriously.
“Calm down, Sofri. It’s only dinner.” We move toward our table, where six or eight well-dressed people gaily introduce themselves in an incomprehensible chatter of Italian. The mood is buoyant as the food is served. After the primi course of homemade ravioli stuffed with the porcini mushrooms we bought that morning, Sofri jumps up to pour more wine. “A big red,” he explains grandly, “to accompany my latest recipe — ròtolo di coniglio al caffè, rabbit rolled with coffee!” Waiters are fanning out with plates of browned meat on skewers when I notice a figure crossing from the blackness beyond the ruin walls into the lights of the party. She is purposeful but respectful; a police detective wearing a skintight blue-skirted uniform, a white gun belt, and low heels. She taps the hostess on the shoulder. Obviously, they know each other. Cecilia looks up with recognition and joy, but the detective has her cop face on.
Sofri reacts immediately.
“Stay,” he says. “This is not a problem,” absurdly denying the presence of red lights pulsing on a cruiser parked nearby, and the grim policewoman. The guests are either in on the game or too absorbed to pay attention. My guess is they know the code: Pretend to ignore this.
Sofri excuses himself and joins Nicosa and Cecilia at a serving station. The detective is holding Cecilia’s hand. Cecilia breaks away for a brief hug from Sofri. After some conversation Nicosa, Cecilia, and the detective leave together, and Sofri returns to the table.
“What is going on?”
“There has been an accident.”
“Giovanni?”
Sofri picks up his napkin. “He will be fine,” he says.
EIGHT
Along the Via Salicotto the flags of Torre were still, their colors of brilliant burgundy and blue at rest in the night like folded wings of mythological beasts.
Giovanni was found in an anonymous tunnel that turns off the main street and opens into one of a thousand tiny courtyards in the medieval part of the city, where buildings meet at random angles. The arched passageway of chalky brick is primitive, just high enough for a man seated on a wagon to pass underneath. By day it is as dark as an Etruscan tomb. By night it is lit by one fluorescent fixture. A street cleaner discovered the boy half dead in the fluttering light, in the heart of enemy territory.
If Torre was out for blood, they got it. His stab wounds made a trail of blood down the sloping pavers. We might have been able to recover footprint evidence from the attackers if the street cleaner hadn’t sprayed the ground with water before — or possibly after — discovering the victim. The street cleaner’s contrada affiliation was unknown; by then I knew enough about the cultural weirdness of Siena that it was the first question I asked.
The course the investigation should take sped through my mind — seal the crime scene, canvass the neighborhood, interview witnesses. I was impatient to talk to the first responders. They had taken my nephew to Ospedale Santa Caterina, twenty kilometers north of the city, because it is one of Cecilia’s private clinics with a higher standard of care — a questionable decision that cost time. He was almost gone from loss of blood. A knife to the chest had collapsed a lung. Breathing must have been agony.
The priest of the Oratorio di Santa Caterina, the church of the Oca district, had been a guest at the party. In his forties, with thick black hair and gold-rimmed glasses, he wore the green and white scarf with the Goose over his cassock. He spoke at a gentle pace, a person of true contemplation — none of the greedy egotism I expected in a religious leader. As a hostess, Cecilia treated him with utmost respect, showing all her sides — competent, obedient, and seductive — deeply desiring to impress herself upon the quiet authority of this man.
So when Sofri and I saw that the priest had also gotten up from his table and was hurrying behind Cecilia and Nicosa to the red Ferrari, we left the party immediately, and drove thirty-five minutes on hair-raising jet-black roads to the hospital, which was located in an industrial park. Like my sister, it wasn’t large, but inspired confidence. It had the air of bold, forward-thinking modernity, with a waiting area like an upbeat take on a sixties motel — turquoise sofas and funky lamps like daisies that looked surreal in contrast to the torchlit grandeur of the abbey, and the life-and-death struggle of a kid who was into something way over his head.
When we arrive, the waiting area is empty. Sofri disappears down a hallway to locate the family while I attempt to engage the one police officer in sight — overweight, middle-aged, with a big, bald, indented head. His front teeth are yellow and pushed together as if he’d been attacked by a mad dentist with a vise. When I ask for information about Giovanni Nicosa, he shrugs as if he has never heard the name. I try again, explaining that I am the boy’s aunt from California, and I am very worried.
“California?” He understands “California” and slowly grins with recognition.
“TV?” says the officer.
“You watch TV?”
He nods.
“American TV?”
“Sì.”
“Really? What is your favorite TV show?” He draws in the air. Tracing letters.
“CSI! You like CSI?” He nods, pleased to have conveyed this important fact.
Once again, Sofri arrives to save the day. At his side is the woman police detective who appeared at the abbey, Inspector Francesca Martini, talking rapidly on a cell phone while clutching three unopened packs of cigarettes. Still talking, Inspector Martini manages to shake my hand.
“You are Giovanni’s aunt,” she says in English, then holds up a finger to signify the importance of her phone conversation, which is taking place with the head of the provincial police, her boss, “Il Commissario.” I give a nod. Her bangs go straight across, and the rest of her long, shiny black hair is efficiently pulled into a clip. The short-sleeved uniform reveals a set of muscular, beautifully sculpted arms. You could work out for a hundred hours and never have those arms — they are genetically authentic to the Roman goddess of war.
I ask Sofri how Giovanni is doing.
“Come outside,” he says.
The red Ferrari is one of the few cars in the parking lot. The door is open and the interior lights are on so that Cecilia, bent over an appointment book, can read a number while punching it into her cell phone. She seems to be going down a list — the people you would trust in a crisis. Nicosa is also on the phone, pacing back and forth in the headlights. Sofri shrugs deeper inside his blazer. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since the morning. The air is damp and there are halos around the streetlights.
“Giovanni will need emergency surgery,” Sofri says. “They are waiting for the doctor to arrive from Montepulciano. I can’t believe this.” The door slams shut and the car goes dark. Cecilia walks over to where we are standing. The black dress seems the one thing physically holding her t
ogether. Her hair is falling loose and her hands are clenched. Her face is white. I draw her aside.
“I can help you with this,” I say gently.
“How?”
“Let me call the FBI in Rome. We can pressure them to kick-start the investigation.” “Right now I cannot think about that.” “I know. This is what I do. Let me take that burden off.” “I don’t want you to call the FBI.” “Because of Nicoli? Whatever’s going on with him, he’ll want his son’s attacker to be found—” “Please, you don’t understand. Just leave it to the provincial police.” Her eyes are glistening. She’s on the edge of frantic. She needs to know she’s still in charge of something.
“I’m here if you need me.” “Thank you, Ana,” she murmurs, and my heart squeezes for her pain. “Sofri said you were inside, talking to the police officer. What did you find out?” “His favorite TV show is CSI.” “Don’t make a joke!” “Forgive me; I’m not making a joke. The officer told me nothing.” Sofri is there. His fingers close soothingly around Cecilia’s arm as Nicosa joins us.
“Che succede?” Nicosa asks.
Cecilia, tense, shakes Sofri off.
“I am telling Ana about Giovanni. He was stabbed several times.” Her fear gives way to fury. “In the leg, chest, and abdomen. He has right now bleeding into the abdomen, with laceration of the iliac and femoral arteries, which means he could lose his left leg.” “Lose a leg?”
“The artery was severed; he lost the blood supply to the leg. There is the possibility of amputation.” Her medical authority has returned to steady her. “Also his lung is collapsed from the knife wound to the chest, and he has a broken arm, probably from defending himself.” “What’s the plan?” “To get the best vascular surgeon I know to repair the artery and save the leg. He is on the way.” “What do they say about the assault?” “Nothing,” Nicosa interrupts bitterly. “It happened in Torre.” “Nothing? Because of a rivalry from the thirteenth century? No. I’m sorry, no. Modern police forces do not operate that way.” “Your brother-in-law is suggesting that the police are maybe a little bit slow tonight because the Commissario — the chief of the provincial police in Siena — is from Torre,” Sofri explains.
