YELLOW SHIELD WITH RED AND GREEN STRIPES
1.
Michael found Sebastian at his usual table in the corner of the terrace at the Villa Scacciapensieri, reading a newspaper. He sat down and signaled the waiter for a Campari and soda.
“You never thanked me for my gift,” said Sebastian.
“What gift was that?”
“Physique Pictorial. They’re hard to come by.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “You sent that?”
“Discreetly wrapped in brown paper. I trust the boy didn’t open it.”
Michael sighed. “You didn’t even know me then.”
“No. But your reputation preceded you.”
“Do you know everything about everyone in Italy?”
Sebastian smiled. “Have you given any thought to my offer?”
“I can’t accept it.”
Sebastian tossed back his drink and called to Pippo to bring him another. “I will admit I am distressed. I can’t bear to see your wife in those old dresses. At least let me give her a discount at Schiaparelli.”
“She’ll need maternity clothes soon, not high fashion.”
“Is she terribly heartbroken over a certain tragic marchese’s return to his wife?”
Michael was silent. Pippo brought them a pinzimonio. Sebastian grabbed a large piece of celery and wielded it like a weapon.
“And your boyfriend Duncan? How is he?”
“Is that Moscow asking?”
“Just me. Scout’s honor.”
“Like I would trust you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s precisely because I am untrustworthy that you can trust me.”
Michael sighed. “He’s still in Rome. There’s nothing to say, really.”
Sebastian studied him with narrowed eyes while crunching on the celery. “You’re far and away his better in every sense, you know.”
Michael selected a red pepper slice and dunked it in the olive oil. “He’s just invited me to Capri after the election.” Michael had been surprised by the invitation. Duncan had waxed rhapsodic about what the trip would entail—azure water, a rowboat full of books, glasses of icy limoncello. Julie would be in Paris for the couture shows, Duncan said, and they would have two whole weeks alone.
“Yes, the election. A lot riding on that. Your friends’ investments in the city. My friends’ investment in the Italian market for foreign oil. Everyone but us is rich, it seems.”
“So it seems,” said Michael.
Sebastian dropped a sheaf of typewritten papers on the table.
“What’s this?”
“The membership rolls of Siena’s Communist Party.”
Michael did not pick them up. “How did you get them? From Robertino?”
Sebastian smiled enigmatically. “I bought them, of course. Hadn’t you noticed that everything in Italy is for sale these days? Let’s just say my delivering them to you is a gesture of goodwill. I thought we might work together now and then on frustrating both sides in the pursuit of chaotic stability.”
Michael did not say that he was one step ahead of him in that very mission.
Sebastian picked up the newspaper and frowned at the headline. “I thought Clare said she wasn’t coming to the Palio,” he said. “When is she going to let these poor people down?”
“She is coming after all,” said Michael. “I’ll be with her in the window at the Palazzo Comunale. It’s all in place.”
2.
It was the night of the prova di notte, when anyone could bring a horse to the piazza and test the Palio course. Scottie and Ecco were inside the apartment, watching boys and young men go rocketing around the curves on sturdy farm horses, shouting and hooting. She was envious. Finally, the last horse clattered out of the piazza and all was silent. She heard the clock strike midnight. She sighed and turned away from the window.
She was about to get into bed when she heard a knock at the door. Ecco whined instead of barked.
“It’s me,” called Michael. Surprised, she opened the door.
“Is everything okay? Come in,” she said, but he stood in the doorway, grinning.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Get dressed. Pants.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
She changed her clothes and followed him down the stairs and through the big wooden front door. Robertino was there, grinning, holding the reins of a fat gray horse.
“You were upset when I said women couldn’t ride in the Palio,” said Michael. “It’s a stupid rule. But no one can stop you from riding tonight.”
She laughed out loud. “You two cooked up this idea?”
They both nodded bashfully.
“I told him not to bring a fast one,” said Michael. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” He looked worried.
“This is Alisso,” said Robertino. “He’s a good boy.” Robertino’s cast was off.
“Should you be walking around on that leg?” she asked. “It’s only been what—six weeks?—since you broke it.”
“Nearly seven,” said Robertino dismissively.
Scottie ran her hand over the neck of the gelding, put her nose against his fur and breathed in his scent. Heaven.
“You don’t have to,” said Michael. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
She grinned. “Give me a leg up.”
“Watch that curve at San Martino,” Robertino said, pointing across the piazza. “But after that, let him out.”
The little gray gelding jigged anxiously underneath her, and Scottie patted his neck.
“Three times around slowly,” said Michael.
“Three times around.”
Scottie trotted out onto the track. The sensible thing would have been to gently canter the horse around the undulating, terrifyingly tight course. Instead Scottie let the gelding have his head. They shot toward the first curve. She tried to slow the horse, but had to settle for leaning back and aiming him high into the curve, so that she would have time and space to keep her legs under her and make it around.
The horse’s stride shortened, jarring for a moment, and then lengthened again as he shot out of the curve like a slingshot. They galloped flat-out along the straightaway past the Torre del Mangia, and then had to slow for the sharp uphill turn that marked the transition to the long curve of the fan-top of the piazza. They raced up the hill, then crested and began the dangerous downhill gallop again. With every stride Scottie’s joy grew.
Michael and Robertino were cheering as she galloped past them.