by April Smith
There are a couple of relaxed-looking provincial cops in light blue shirts with epaulets — and, if worst came to worst, those guys with the spears. Is it possible there is one spot on earth where there is no need for security or suspicion of petty thievery, kidnapping, or terrorist attack? If so it must be here and now, at eleven in the morning, along this sun-kissed stone passageway thronged with believers, where the smells of deeply cooked complex sauces for the celebration lunch are beginning to drift through the aqua shutters of kitchen windows, where ghosts of ancient arches are still visible in the brickwork, and where plants grow arrogantly out of the walls.
Finally, giving in to the spirit, I march downhill to the rhythm of the drums, ending up in Piazza Provenzano, a small square facing the white façade of Santa Maria church. The doors are wide open and the procession keeps pushing inside, a giant traffic jam, as the parishes of each contrada enter behind their alfieri and tamburinos.
The church has simple smooth white walls and is filled with light. In the apse, a golden altar is topped with mosaics and covered with flowers. The moment we enter, a change comes over Cecilia. Never mind that the pews are overflowing, and the atmosphere is as rowdy as a ball game — this is a sacred space that is obviously a deep comfort. It seems natural for her to make the transition from the outside world, murmuring prayers without the slightest self-consciousness.
Sensing my curiosity, she tries to explain. “I am asking for help. I believe it will come.” “Me, too,” I say, although I have no idea what I’m talking about. Help? From where? To do what? Make all of it just go away?
Cecilia and I stay close, but we have lost sight of Nicosa and Sofri in the multitude. I can’t help snapping pictures on my phone. It’s like being inside a wedding cake — round pillars of butterscotch marble topped with creamy rosettes, framing giant oil paintings of lessons and miracles. As more and more people crowd in, Cecilia and I are crushed beside a rack of gowns where altar boys are suiting up. It is touching to see their young faces full of self-importance, but my eye is caught by a single nun in white — older, head bowed, a point of stillness in the pressing crowd.
At last the Palio banner enters and the church erupts with shouts and drums.
Cecilia cries, “Touch it for luck. Go! Go!” Pushing toward the center aisle as the banner is slogged through, reaching with mad ardor like everybody else — shouldering past gray-haired ladies and wide-eyed children, all of us greedy for a touch of magic — I cannot stretch my fingers far enough to reach the cloth, but then I am an outsider; why should I share in their good fortune? The banner continues toward the altar, where it will be blessed by an archbishop dressed in red and white lace. I snap a photo of the nun, a quiet eddy in the current, fingers curled against her fuzzy chin, eyes peering through smudged glasses. I envy her tranquillity.
“Is it too late to become a nun?” I whisper to Cecilia. But Cecilia doesn’t answer, because she is no longer there.
SIXTEEN
Expelled from the church into the steamy square, the crush disperses slowly, contradaioli gathering in knots of animated conversation. It is easy to spot Sofri standing with a group of older men, also wearing Oca scarves, all of them smoking and talking at once.
Sofri says something that causes the others to nod with approving smiles.
“I told them you are my niece from America,” he says.
I feel a blush of pleasure. “I’m touched. Do I call you zio?” I say, dragging up the word for “uncle.” “Zio, sure.” Sofri grins. “Molto bène!”
“Where is Cecilia?” “I don’t know. You don’t see her?” We gaze over the crowd fanning out along the many streets leading out of the piazza. Tourists are still gathered, watching the spectacle of citizens in soft velvet hats and suede tunics chatting in front of motorbikes and smart cars.
“She was standing right next to me in church.” “Maybe she got a call and went outside to hear better,” Sofri says, pointing helpfully to his ear.
Looking more closely at the clusters of ladies (the men and women have separated themselves like iron filings on a magnet) I see nobody in an emerald suit with a mountain of auburn hair.
“Maybe the call was about Giovanni? Maybe something happened.” Sofri speed-dials the abbey and speaks to the nurse.
“The nurse says they did not call her. It is still possible Cecilia went home.” “Is Giovanni all right?” “He has a slight fever. The nurse is not concerned.” “How could Cecilia go home?” I wonder. “We have the car.” Nicosa, looking confident and at ease, is shaking hands with the archbishop, whose vibrant crimson and lace just knock you out in the sunshine. When His Excellency moves away, Sofri calls Nicosa over, asking questions in Italian, to which Nicosa shakes his head and shows his car keys, indicating that his wife could not have driven away. The square outside Santa Maria church is now empty. The tide has gone out, and there is no trace of Cecilia. Scanning the roofs and windows, I see only a Jack Russell terrier on a balcony, lustily pulling the leaves off a potted basil plant.
Squinting through the smoke of a cigarette, Nicosa tries her cell. No answer. He looks at his watch.
I ask, “What was the plan?” “Meet outside the church,” he replies impatiently. “Have lunch at the café. They are expecting us.” “She must already be there,” Sofri decides. “Or at the contrada headquarters, cooking up a masterpiece for tomorrow night. Wait until you see the food these women put out.” She wouldn’t be cooking, not in that suit.
“She’s punishing me for the unpleasantness in the car,” Nicosa says. “It’s all Ana’s fault.” He smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “I am kidding. We are friends, right?” “Of course.” “Mangiamo! Let’s eat!” I go with the men of Nicosa’s circle, trooping back to Oca territory, where all the stores are bustling. Frequently they stop en masse to shake hands and kiss their brethren, everyone reciting hopes for a good outcome in Monday’s race.
Finally we come to a small square with a church and a fountain — the fountain where Cecilia was baptized into the contrada for life. Unlike the flashy store in the Rome train station, the original Caffè Nicosa, where Nicosa’s father started out as a coffee roaster, is a hole-in-the-wall — chipped plaster peeling away from the brick, a potted tree by the entrance, no sign, no menu, just a framed picture from Italian Vogue showing Nicosa and Cecilia looking very glam in the courtyard of the abbey. I picture her inside with her jacket off, wearing just the sexy chemise she had on under the suit, chatting and holding a glass of wine, a shrewd look aimed at the beaded curtain at the door, sights fixed and ready for her husband’s entrance.
But the crowd has overflowed the street, and we can barely get inside. It is impossible to hear in the din of talk and laughter, or to move in any direction without the herculean effort of asking people to suck it in and step aside. “Mi scusi,” I keep breathing, wedging sideways, looking for Cecilia by randomly working my way in and out of the pack, blind as a worm. The place has that deep divine coffee smell, not just the brew of it, but the layered heart and soul of it, blackberry and chocolate. In view is the original roaster, an iron contraption of drums, ovens, pipes, and gauges painted bright red. They still roast here, every day, and the concentrated aroma rising off the tarry mountains of beans is as cool and seductive as tones off Coltrane’s sax.
Pinned against the bar, where oval platters of antipasto seem to appear and disappear every few seconds, I figure what the hell, I’m famished, and start loading up on bruschetta and crostini with porcini mushrooms or fresh mozzarella. A glass of vino rosso restores my equilibrium and good spirits, which are impossible to resist in this tiny room jammed with people high in a communal delirium, on the crest of what promises to be a long party.
Besides, nobody else is concerned about Cecilia’s absence. “I saw her a minute ago” or “Did you ask Nicoli?” are typical responses, when I can get the attention of someone I recognize. Then a quick smile and a back turned. Stymied and needing air, I push outside.
The after
noon sun is kinder, although the temperature is still sultry. The Fontebranda fountain is swarming with Oca teenagers. Some are singing rousing hymns like high school fight songs; many suck on baby pacifiers — a symbol that if Oca wins, everyone in the contrada will be considered to have been reborn, pure as a newborn baby.
Nicosa comes outside with a group of waiters who have been hired for the occasion, older men in black aprons, directing them to pick up the glasses and trash left in the street.
“We should call the hospital about Cecilia,” I say.
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s there, on an emergency.” “Don’t worry about Cecilia; she takes care of herself,” he says with irritation.
“Has she ever disappeared without telling anyone?” Nicosa gives me a look from the corner of his eye. “You don’t know everything about your sister. There are two sides to the story. Or maybe in the FBI, you don’t think so.” “We keep an open mind.” “Do you?”
“Yes, but why would she go anywhere — willingly — when she’s frantic about her son?” He takes a step backward and lights a cigarette, attempting a softer tone.
“You must understand, this business with Giovanni is not new. I once found him passed out in the shower from taking pills.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “The reason I may appear calm is that the drugs are locked up in his mother’s car, the bitch Englishwoman has left the country, and he is sick in bed — guarded by a policeman!” He gives a bitter laugh. “As safe as he’ll ever be. We’ll all sit down and discuss this … whenever your sister decides it is time to come home.”
SEVENTEEN
Palio, Day 3—SUNDAY, JULY 1, 12:00 P.M. When there is still no sign of Cecilia by noon the following day, I call Dennis Rizzio in Rome.
“Do me favor? Check and see if Cecilia Nicosa left the country in the last twenty-four hours.” “Why would she do that?” “Domestic dispute.”
“Where would she be likely to go?” “El Salvador.”
“She had a fight with her husband, so she goes to El Salvador?” Dennis asks rhetorically.
“She’s feeling a lot of pressure.” I explain the illicit delivery of drugs in the painting. “She also confessed that Nicosa is ‘under the thumb’ of the mafias.” “Meaning what?”
“In her mind he’s paying bribes, and she wants it to stop. It’s why she reached out to me. Nicosa exploded at her yesterday in the car, just before she disappeared.” “Women have been known to abandon their families when they can’t cope, although El Salvador is kind of far to go. And during Palio?” He thinks some more. “You really believe she’d leave her kid, who just got out of the hospital?” “Honestly, Dennis … no. I don’t believe that for a second.” “This worries me. It follows the recent pattern of the ‘disappeared’ in Italy. You have a high-profile lady married to someone with whom, let’s say, the mafias have a beef. They take the wife.” “For money?”
“Could be for money. Kidnaps for money are a national sport. You can usually negotiate your way out, but if it’s personal with Nicosa — if he got crossed-up with the clans — in that case, she never comes back.” I swallow hard. “What’s the plan?” “Sit tight. We don’t know enough. Don’t let it distract you; we still have a mission. I’ll make some calls.” “You promised to protect the family—” “I will. Trust me. Like I said, I’m as concerned as you are.” At sunset, the contrada dinners begin. Long tables snake down the street, end to end, like a river of gold. Candlelight plays over the joyful faces of the people of Oca. Loud talk and spontaneous singing echo through the canyons of the old city, where each territory has become a raucous block party. Just before darkness, bamboo barriers ten feet high were unrolled across the streets, sealing off the ancient boundaries of each neighborhood, keeping enemies and tourists out.
Inside the barricade, the light is rosy and emotions are high. Tomorrow is the race, and anything can happen. Today we are with friends, floating in a bubble of hope. Nicosa and Sofri are radiant, exchanging toasts and laughter with everyone around them. Cecilia’s place is empty, but Nicosa brushes inquiries aside; she will be here any moment.
At the far end, all the kids are swooning over the fantino — the jockey hired to ride Oca’s horse. He’s a swarthy thug from Sardinia, festooned with gold chains, with the long-legged body you need to race bareback and a conceited grin, making the most of his celebrity moment, as well he should. If he loses, he will be dragged off the horse and beaten by the very contradaioli who are feverishly toasting him tonight.
I cannot follow the Italian zinging around me, so I isolate myself in a safe cocoon of paranoia, surreptitiously holding my cell phone beneath the table and replaying again the images I had taken yesterday, looking for the moment Cecilia vanished.
The shots in the church are random. Mostly I was holding the cell phone up over the crowd; there are a lot of backs of heads, and shoulders with purse straps. Everyone is turned toward the silver helmets and spears just visible in the honor guard that accompanies the Palio banner down the aisle. Cecilia is out of range, behind me, but there are no suspicious faces in view. A couple of cops, unconcerned, are going the opposite way. There’s the solo nun in white.
Afterward, in Piazza Provenzano, I took a picture of the banner being carried up the street, past a dark indistinguishable array of spectators. Two fellows in black tunics with gold trim are chatting in front of an ambulance at a paramedic station.
I feel Cecilia’s absence in my body, which would be a ridiculous thing to say to Nicosa or Sofri, who seem to be putting on a show of nonchalance about the nonattendance of a major socialite at the biggest party of the year. Nicosa has a big responsibility tonight. It is his job to meet with the directors of the other contrade to negotiate partiti, a complicated system of bets that results in big payouts. Another Sienese contradiction: the night before Palio, blood enemies sit down and negotiate.
At the moment, Nicosa is conferring in whispers with two middle-aged balding men squatting by his chair — spies, Sofri explains — who report on the other jockeys and horses, factors that could change the odds. He also says that at the starting line, up until the shot from the mortaretto that begins the race, the jockeys will be making deals among themselves.
“You mean the whole thing is fixed?” “Let’s just say there are two kinds of fate,” Sofri says. “Chance, and money.” Is Cecilia angry enough to humiliate Nicosa by staying away at this crtitical event? Is Nicosa angry enough to have done her harm? Someone appears to be waving at me. Down at the curve in the street, where the tables turn and disappear from sight like a glittering toy Christmas train, a woman I don’t recognize seems to be trying to get my attention.
Edging along the sidewalk, past the endless chain of tables, is like being inside one of those unbroken three-minute tracking shots in an epic movie, where they pan along a battlefield, ending at the eyes of an innocent child, a waif held by its mother, staring at the carnage of war with huge questioning eyes.
Inspector Martini and her baby.
Martini looks totally different all dressed up, smoking a cigarette, hair loose, wearing makeup and a low-cut, sensuous dress. Yes, she had been waving. We shake hands firmly, then relent and kiss on both cheeks. We are Oca sisters, not at the police station now. She pivots the child on her lap — a wispy-haired, tiny thing — eager to show off her daughter’s English.
“Tell Ana your name.” “Sylvana,” says the girl.
“Tell her how old you are.” She holds up two delicate fingers.
“Do you like Oca?”
Sylvana nods solemnly.
Martini asks, “What about Torre?” The little girl sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.
The mother laughs with pride, exhaling smoke, and rewarding the girl with biscotti dipped in coffee.
I smile at the child. “Brava!”
In America we call it brainwashing.
“Have you seen Cecilia?” “No,” says Martini, looking around. “Isn’t she here?” “She disappeare
d yesterday in church. There’s been no communication.” “Did she and Nicoli have an argument?” “Yes, but this feels different. After what happened to Giovanni — and Lucia Vincenzo — we have to consider that she has come into harm’s way.” Martini presses the baby’s head against her chest, as if to shield her from the very possibility.
“You are saying someone took Cecilia?” she asks softly. “Kidnapped her?” “That’s Dennis Rizzio’s feeling.” She crushes the cigarette, her expression serious. “It’s common now, and on the rise. We have hundreds of incidents each year. Sometimes it’s for money, but in that case they usually take a child. The mafias will also take someone to humiliate an enemy.” “What’s the rate of safe return of the hostages?” She twists her lips. “Not good. Less than half? I’m guessing.” “You can’t know because you don’t have the bodies.” “Esattamente. In this game of disappearances, they are winning. They deprive us of two weapons — evidence of the murder, and witnesses to the crime. Nobody will talk.” A man’s hand closes around my wrist. Nicosa was quick to follow me along the tables. Inspector Martini’s eyes rise inquisitively above my head.
“Ana,” says Nicosa. “We are missing you!” “I was just talking to—” He cuts me off. “Come back. You must taste the pasta; tonight it is very special. Ravioli stuffed with squash and Gorgonzola cheese.” You could make him for unconcerned, holding a glass of wine and a cigarette, but his grip on my wrist is tightening, hard. I choose not to flinch. Remaining silent, accepting the pain, communicates my resistance.
“Come, be with the family.” “See you later,” I manage.
Martini nods, but her large eyes take everything in.
My fingers are swollen and numb. I fear they will burst, like water balloons, until Nicosa releases my wrist. We walk back up the street, past hundreds of animated contrada members in folding chairs.
