“THE EAGLE’S BEAK, TALON AND WING—UNGUIBUS ET ROSTRIS”
1.
The old farm buildings of Centro Ippico ai Lecci were surrounded by huge, spooky oaks that must have been hundreds of years old. Scottie parked the Vespa she had rented from the young mechanic in Via Camollia, who was, she knew full well, making a small fortune on the deal. It suited her to be seen as just a tourist out for a jaunt. It was in truth a slightly impractical mode of transportation for outside the city, putt-putting slowly up hills and threatening to stall at any moment, but Scottie enjoyed the ride out to the stable, Ecco balancing on the seat in front of her. When they arrived, she kept Ecco on his short leather leash and stood by the rail of the riding arena, watching a swaggering man do a very bad job lunging a young horse.
You have no patience, she wanted to tell him. The horse was irritated, jaw clamped, neck muscles rigid, learning nothing except to hate humans. The man greeted her and said he’d be done in a minute. Tommaso Gatti, he said his name was. Tom Cats, it would be in English. He was wearing a beautifully cut tweed jacket and tall brown boots, and was in his thirties, she guessed. Arrogant. Definitely condescending to her, the stupid American, telling her how difficult the horse was, but how he would “win.” She disliked him immediately, but when he finished and came over to the rail, she inquired about the price of stabling and whether trails were available.
“Sì,” he said. “From here you can ride all over la Toscana,” adding, of course, a weaselly “I can show you myself. It’s dangerous to ride alone.” The poor chestnut, sides heaving, wet with sweat and foam, needed to be walked out.
She asked for Robertino. “He’s my Italian teacher,” she said, “and he’s just disappeared on me.” She acted annoyed rather than concerned.
“An unreliable boy,” said Tom Cats. “Uneducated, you know. He is probably off somewhere having the time of his life. I suppose he owes you money?”
Scottie was offended on Robertino’s behalf, and on her own, as if her interest in the boy could be nothing more than financial. “Does he have friends who might know where he is?”
“A boy like that? No.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifted his shoulders.
She turned to leave, frustrated, but then felt a wave of courage and turned back to him.
“Did a woman named Gina ever come here?”
Tom Cats tilted his face up under his hat and stuck his chin out. “Gina? How do you know Gina?” He stared at her. “I don’t know her.” And with that, he finally went to walk the poor sweating horse out.
* * *
Scottie and Ecco remounted the trusty scooter. She tried to remember exactly what the hardware store owner had said about where Gina’s new “workplace” was. She followed the Via Cassia from Siena toward Grosseto, views of mountains opening up all around her, looking for a pullout that matched his description. Finally, she saw a woman sitting on an overturned bucket by the side of the road, no vehicle in sight. The woman stood as she pulled up, a hopeful look in her eyes until she saw Scottie was a woman. Scottie saw she was older than Gina—in her forties perhaps, though it was hard to tell. She was wearing a yellow dress trimmed with pink lace, and smoking.
“Buongiorno,” said Scottie. The woman glanced at her but said nothing.
“Have you seen Gina?”
The woman shook her head, trying, like the riding stable owner, to figure out why an American woman with a dog was looking for a whore.
She said something that Scottie couldn’t understand in what sounded like Arabic.
“Sorry, again?” said Scottie.
“Naples, today,” the woman said slowly, pointing down the road. Scottie realized the woman didn’t speak Italian, only the Neapolitan dialect.
Scottie nodded and looked around. Cicadas hummed in the air, and she could smell fresh-cut hay. In the distance a broad purple pyramid loomed over the softer green hills, the colors in sharp contrast to the verdant patchwork below. That must be Monte Amiata.
Across the Cassia was a one-lane dirt road that curved up the hillside. This was, she knew, the direction Carlo lived in. She should not go that way. Scottie fired up the scooter again and headed up the road. After a couple of miles she passed several unmarked forks in the road and eventually an old cemetery. She couldn’t see any farms, just a vast expanse of undulating hills, cypresses and low dense brush spotted with bright yellow blooms. She parked the scooter at a crossroads to get her bearings and to let Ecco stretch his legs. With an excited growling bark, the fox terrier darted into some deep brush along the dusty roadside.
Twenty minutes later, he had not reappeared. She could barely hear him barking in the distance. Was he in danger, or just on a scent? Robertino’s disappearance made everything else in this landscape feel sinister. The sun dropped closer to a row of cypresses on the horizon, and she looked at her watch again. Nearly seven. Michael would be back from Rome tonight. She was meeting him at Bar Nannini at eight after the evening prova. She’d have to change first—driving a scooter on a dusty road turned out to be a messy proposition, despite the crisp ads filling the papers and magazines showing beautiful women zooming around, newly liberated from mere foot travel.
The minutes ticked on, and anxiety settled over her hot brain like a wool blanket. If she had to choose between her husband and her dog … Some loyalties were better left unexamined.
Robertino was like her, looking for adventure. When she went over their conversations together, his collection of small jobs—exercising horses, delivering his grandfather’s eggs to the hotels and running errands for tourists—seemed so innocent, but Banchi’s revelation that Gina was his mother meant that there were aspects of his life she knew nothing about. Working at the stable would have exposed him to money, and perhaps also corruption, and crime. Robertino, a naïf, could easily have gotten in over his head.
He’s the sort of boy I’ll have, she thought. He thinks the best of people, and then they disappoint him. I did.
He’s like Michael, she realized.
She turned away from the view and faced the dense brush—macchia, they called it—on the other side of the Vespa. The heavy scent of the yellow broom flowers was worsening her headache.
She looked down and saw marks in the dust. Little oblongs and sharp round holes. She remembered the first time she had ever seen footprints like that, at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with her father. “High heels,” he had said, pointing to Betty Grable’s prints in the cement.
They led to the small opening in the macchia Ecco had disappeared into, then stopped. She got down on her hands and knees and started to climb into the thicket. Branches grabbed at her hair.
She continued down the tunnel Ecco had taken, wondering if she was going to have to back out of it. After she had gone about fifty yards, she saw sunlight ahead. She came to a small clearing in the brush and stood up. Her hands were caked with red mud. It was all over her knees as well, staining her pants. The buzz of flies filled her ears, and she gagged at the smell.
She was in a sort of room—a small cot with an ancient thin mattress half rotted away, the ring where many fires had been made. There was a body on the cot. From the flies and the smell she knew it was no longer alive. She couldn’t see the face, but she recognized the thin dress, saw red high heels lying on the ground next to the cot. Steeling herself, she took a step closer, saw a syringe on the ground next to the shoes.
There was a rustling in the brush, and she jumped as an animal ran past her, something strange and shapeless, followed by Ecco. There was a terrible snarl, then yelping. Then silence.
Her heart was pounding and she felt herself starting to retch. She had to go back the way she’d come. She dropped to her knees and crawled toward the road, getting even more filthy. When she emerged once again into daylight, a man was standing there.
Carlo. Of course.
2.
Michael sat on the train, realizing that he was looking forward to seeing Scottie. He was craving her smile, longing to hear about the mundane details of her day. He would ask her about the shopping. About whether she might like a new summer dress. She was like Central Park, beautiful and quiet and manicured and safe. They would have a nice dinner, and he could briefly pretend to himself that he was what she saw, a straight man whose only job was to sell big, beautiful blue tractors.
Art Buchwald’s column, “Europe’s Lighter Side,” was a humorous look at how American businessmen could write off a trip to Europe on their taxes. Michael smiled at the portrait of Americans abroad, spending their money, having a good time, leaving nothing but good feelings in their wake.
3.
For a moment they stared at each other, as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing.
“There’s a dead woman,” said Scottie. “In there. I think it’s Gina.”
“Dio mio,” said Carlo. “Sit down.” She sat on the scooter seat.
“There’s a syringe,” she said.
“Drugs. But how did you—?”
Why were you crawling through my property? would have been a very logical question. “Robertino is missing. I thought maybe Gina would know where he was. I found out, well, anyway, I found her.”
Carlo was in khaki pants, jacket and vest, white shirt, tie, fedora and short boots with leather ghette, or laced leggings, over them, not perfectly clean after a day of work but at least tidy. He had a long staff. He was dressed like a buttero, she recognized, an Italian cowboy. He had leaned his rifle against the scooter. A black horse with a large ugly head was standing nearby, swatting flies with its tail. “I must telephone the police,” he said. “There’s a farm nearby. I will be right back. You are okay to wait here?”
She nodded. He mounted his horse and disappeared.
She called for Ecco, but got no response. What would she tell Michael about this?
Carlo returned after a few minutes. “They are coming,” he said. They avoided each other’s eyes, but shock was setting in, and she wanted to throw herself into his arms in a really undignified way.
“My dog,” she said. “He ran off. Did you see him?” It was perfectly natural to keep her eyes moving over the landscape.
“No. But I heard him before. Don’t be too hard on him. He probably saved Gina’s body from … animals.” They were quiet for a second, both listening, looking out over the macchia, and she could smell Carlo’s scent—leather and horse and pipe tobacco and something else. There was nothing but silence, and the wind over the hills. Carlo let out a piercing whistle, and they stared and listened again. Nothing.
“She was covered in flies,” she said. “I didn’t have anything to put over her.”
Still without looking at her, he took her hand as they stood side by side, and when she felt the warmth of his fingers, how strong and rough they were, her throat closed up and she was overwhelmed with emotion, followed immediately by embarrassment.
“I’m sorry for what I said the other day,” she wanted to say, but instead she said, “That’s a lovely horse you have,” even though the horse’s head looked so heavy it seemed it would pitch forward any second. Her voice was high and unsteady.
“Sit down,” he said, now finally looking at her, frowning, handing her a handkerchief.
She still couldn’t meet his eyes, though she could feel them on her. He had seen many dead people. Had seen his own son dead. She sat down on the ground and tried to get her breathing under control. He crouched next to her, staring into the distance. Then he stood up and gave another whistle.
“I think I hear barking,” he said. He whistled again.
She inhaled. His smell reminded her of her home in California, of evenings playing cards with her father when the winter rain battered the windows and the palm trees nearly bent double in the wind.
At that moment, Ecco came bursting out of the macchia, panting, his face a horror movie mask. She gasped.
“Un istrice,” Carlo said calmly. “Porcupine.” He leaned down and picked up Ecco gently. The dog’s face was filled with quills, some dangerously close to his eyes. He was oddly quiet, and looked like he, too, was in shock.
“Oh goodness! I need to get him to a veterinarian as soon as—the police.”
He took a pair of pliers out of his jacket pocket. “Hold him,” he said. Scottie winced as Carlo began to yank the quills out of Ecco’s face one by one with a sharp flick of his wrist. Ecco stayed surprisingly quiet.
“You’ve done this a lot,” she said.
He nodded. “The hunting dogs,” he said. “They never learn.” His hands moved with confidence, and his mouth curled in a frown as he continued working on the dog.
“Poor Gina,” she said. “Signor Banchi didn’t speak to her. But Robertino tried to help her. Banchi thinks maybe she got him involved in something, that that’s why he’s disappeared.”
Carlo nodded, surprised, she could see, by how much she knew.
“Prostitution has always been somewhat tolerated,” he said, continuing to remove the quills from the dog. “But now, with the tourists, people are angry. Brutta figura. Bad impression. That’s not the Siena we want the world to see. So the police harass the prostitutes, and they come and work out here. They wait on the Cassia until a driver stops, and then they bring him to hidden places they know from…” He paused, not willing to tell her everything, she could see. “Places they know. Hiding places.”
“What do you think happened to Robertino? Is he caught up in all this?”
“I don’t know. People are on the move. It’s all different now. Things are changing so fast.”
They were silent for a moment.
“The stableman where Robertino works said he’s unpopular. Is that why? Or because of his mother?”
“That and he has nine rival contrade breathing down his neck, and the barbareschi do sometimes sabotage each other.”
“Really?”
“Palio madness. But I’m worried that it’s more than that.” His voice dropped, as if someone might be listening. “Did Banchi tell you about Robertino’s father?”
“I thought he was an American GI.”
“It’s more convenient to say that. But there are people who remember the truth. He was a German. Even for a Nazi, he was not a good man. It’s part of why Gina was tolerated, and not tolerated. She was so young. And why Robertino is … something of an outsider.”
Scottie was furious. “But it’s not his fault who his parents were!”
Carlo sighed, and she saw that there was a lot he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “Your family, who you come from … It’s not like in America. The Sienese are…” She remembered what he had said about not having friends in Siena. Instead of finishing the thought, he reached out and removed a twig from Scottie’s hair. His eyes landed on hers at last. “If you’re going to venture into the macchia, you should watch out for cinghiali.” Cinghiali, she knew, were the sharp-tusked local wild boar. Vicious. Ecco shifted in his arms and he broke their gaze, resumed the last of the quill pulling. “If you come face-to-face with the cinghiale you’ll be sorry.” But there was something more than that in his warning.
“Carlo.” She was once again about to say, “I’m sorry for what I said the other day,” but a plume of dust appeared along the road, and they turned and saw a black Alfa racing toward them.
“You didn’t find her,” Carlo said urgently. “I did.”
Before she could protest, the cloud of dust enveloped them as the Alfa skidded to an unnecessarily dramatic stop.
Tenente Pisano got out of the car, his black boots shining.
“Signor Marchese,” he said with great deference, then frowned at her. “Signora Messina?”
“Signora Messina is my tenant,” said Carlo. “She’s just come to talk about a problem with the apartment. She’s not involved in … this. Gina is in there. There are drugs.” He pointed to the tunnel in the macchia. “Any sign of Robertino in Siena?”
Pisano shook his head and looked reluctantly at the opening in the macchia. Scottie could see he did not want to sully his crisp uniform.
“Signor Tenente,” Scottie said. “I’d like to help find Robertino in any way I can.”
“How could you possibly help?” he snapped.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. I was offering.”
“It’s your fault we have drugs in Italy.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. The Americans freed all the Mafiosi, and now they are making heroin. It’s an abomination.”
“Well, you can’t possibly blame me for that!”
Attempting to maintain his dignity, Tenente Pisano crawled into the brush muttering an array of curses.
Carlo took the reins of his horse and moved off down the road. Scottie pushed the scooter alongside him.
“We grew up together,” said Carlo, nodding over his shoulder at where the tenente had diappeared. “He’s gotten very full of himself, but I believe he’s still a good man. I would offer you a cup of tea, but I think you said something the other day about never wanting to see me again.”
She blushed, but when she looked at him, he was laughing.
Oh God, she thought, feeling all her resolve start to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just…”
“I understand,” he said quietly. “So I won’t invite you. Unless…” He pointed to a cluster of tall pines. “Castello delle Castagne.”
“A castle?”
“An exaggeration.”
She very, very badly wanted to see Carlo’s house. But she knew it would not stop there. And so did he. Carlo was handsome, kind, charming, intelligent, funny, tragic … and very romantic.
“I would love to, but I have to get back to Siena,” she said.
Carlo gave a slight bow of acknowledgment. “Another time, then,” he said. “Enjoy the Palio.”
“I’ll try, but I’m so worried about Robertino. If he knows who was giving her drugs…”
Carlo nodded. “That is why you saw nothing. Better to stay out of it.”
She put Ecco safely onto the scooter.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to put as much meaning into it as possible.
“Il piacere è stato tutto mio, gentile Signora Messina”—The pleasure was all mine—he said with grinning faux formality, then leaned down and picked up the largest of the quills, about eight inches long, striped in black and white like the town’s cathedral, with a vicious point.
“Like the Sienese,” he said with a grim smile, handing it to her carefully.
* * *
There was no time to change. With poor punctured Ecco on the seat in front of her like the figurehead on a ship, his ears pinned back in the wind, she buzzed back into Siena through Porta Tufi. She threaded her way through the narrow streets under festoons of laundry, and created a parking place by moving a trash bin in Piazza Mercato behind the Campo as the crowds came pouring out of the piazza. The evening prova was over, and the restaurants would be setting up as fast as magicians could make a rabbit appear. She pulled on gloves, rearranged her scarf and brushed the twigs out of her hair using the rearview mirror. She’d have to return the scooter tomorrow morning. There was nothing to do about the mud stains on the formerly crisp knees of her trousers. She sighed, snapped on Ecco’s leash and walked up the stairs and into the piazza under the disapproving gaze of the saints on the Torre del Mangia.
I saw a dead body, she thought. I saw a dead body, but I can’t tell anyone. I mustn’t get involved.
* * *
As they crossed the piazza, Ecco stopped to be petted by an adoring trio of girls in white dresses and perfect little hats. She could feel the stares and hear the pointed chatter as she and Ecco arrived at Bar Nannini. Nothing in Siena went unnoticed by anyone. Would Tenente Pisano spread the word that La Straniera was hanging out roadside with il marchese? Che figura, she imagined they were whispering about her. She tried to stand tall. The scarf did a poor job of covering the dried mud, Ecco’s blood and dog hair. She felt ashamed and at the same time resentful that she was supposed to be perfectly pressed all the time. She wanted to bark at the people at the surrounding tables.
Poor Michael was stepping out of the crowd to greet her, clearly alarmed. “What happened to you?”
She wished she could tell him everything. Why couldn’t she? Because he would be even more worried than he already was. He would probably put her on the next ship back to America.
“I … I rented a scooter to take a drive in the country and I skidded out,” she said.
“Oh, Scottie. The baby … You need to be careful. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. And then Ecco ran off and came back with a faceful of porcupine quills. I’m sorry I’m late. It was kind of a terrible day.”
The sad part was that she felt empowered by not telling him. Perhaps that was how he felt when describing his Rome trips simply as “boring.” He listened to her highly edited story as the waiter, Paolo, showed them to a coveted table outside, Michael sipping his gin martini, his eyes on the parade of people passing their table. There was something a little thrilling about not telling, she realized. The power of secrets. But this thought also depressed her, with all its implications for her marriage, and the rest of her life with this person.
A pack of young contradaioli in Snail neckerchiefs marched past chanting. Their energy made her feel flat in comparison.
“I brought you this,” he said, handing her a large black box. “I went to Nina Ricci. If you don’t like it, I’ll exchange it.”
She opened the box. It was the most absurd, fabulous little hat she had ever seen, a little cap of white feathers that came up to a saucy question point curl on top.
“It reminded me of Ecco’s tail,” said Michael.
“I love it,” she said, thinking it was not something she would ever wear.
4.
Scottie was late and, when she arrived, a mess. She told him some crazy story about having rented a scooter and taken a drive outside the city. Not that he could blame her for wanting to escape—the drumming alone could drive a person to madness.
He wished he could tell her about the bizarre meeting with Duncan—secrets were so corrosive, he thought.
At least she seemed to like the hat.
5.
“I think I’d better have a vet look at Ecco,” she said, sipping her Campari and soda, hoping it would change her mood. The dog was lying on the tufa-covered paving stones under their table, subdued at last, faint droplets of dried blood on his muzzle.
“Where’s your bracelet?” Michael asked suddenly, staring at her wrist. “Oh, Scottie, you haven’t lost it?”
“It must have fallen off when I crashed,” she said. She realized Pisano would find it when he removed Gina’s body. There would be questions. Would Carlo cover for her? She knew somehow that he would, that he would be her friend above all. That he was loyal.
The waiter arrived with a plate of crostini, an appetizer of little toasts.
Michael sighed and covered her hand with his. “I’ll buy you another one,” he said. “On the Ponte Vecchio. We’ll go up to Florence soon and have lunch. Make a day of it. We’ll get some baby things, too.”
“How are tractor sales?” she asked as Paolo brought her another Campari and soda and another gin martini for Michael.
He shook his head. “Not great.”
6.
Scottie said something in Italian to the dog about bones. When had she learned to speak Italian so well? It was highly impressive, though the Agency would not approve. It would be good for her to meet some other English-speaking wives. This mixing with the locals was not the norm for Agency spouses, but then Scottie did not know she was an Agency spouse. He felt guilty about all the nights he left her alone. Always, but especially when he was coming back to Siena from Rome, the taste of Duncan on his lips, he was ashamed of what he was, and angry that he had to hide behind her.
“Maybe you should invite Leona to come over, and you two could go down to Capri,” he said. “Get out of the heat for a couple of weeks.”
Leona. Only a few months ago they were so close, and now she felt like her former best friend would hardly know her, and Scottie wouldn’t know what to say to her.
“I can’t leave now. Not while we don’t know what’s happened to Robertino.”
7.
Michael was trying so hard to be nice. He was right, of course, that she should get out of Siena for a bit. She was trying hard to find the one person besides Carlo who could ruin her marriage. If Robertino told Michael—or anyone—what he had seen at San Galgano … and yet she couldn’t bear the idea that the boy might be in danger. He might not want to be her friend anymore, but she would continue to be his.
“Look,” Michael said. “I know I’ve been away a lot, and you’ve been lonely. When we’re in Florence, we’ll sign you up for the American Women’s Club, okay?”
She laughed a little, surprised. “Do you really see me as one of those corporate wives who lives in an English-only bubble and looks down on the ‘natives’? Bridge, shopping, tea, art history lectures, a barbecue on the Fourth of July and a turkey at Thanksgiving to keep the American spirit alive?”
“Yes,” he said, looking confused. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said. Everything, she thought. “You’re right,” she said, lying.
She watched two rival squads of chanting contradaioli meet in the center of the square. It had been a strange, discombobulated day, yet she didn’t want it to end.
“Let’s get some dinner,” he said.
“One more drink.” Without waiting for Michael to agree, she waved to the waiter and ordered another Campari. She had no taste for it, had barely touched the second one, but she ordered it anyway, to keep them there. She moved her chair around so that she and Michael were sitting side by side, the piazza spread out before them like a stage.
The evening air felt good on her skin. She watched the passeggiata of people moving around the Campo, wishing she were one of them. She thought of Robertino, of Ugo, of Carlo, each so alive in his own way, and poor Gina, dead.
“I’d like to ride in the Palio,” she said.
Michael smiled at her, confused. “It’s not for women,” he said.
The café lights were coming on, and the chairs around them were filling up with older people who preferred to sit and watch. Scottie could hear someone talking about Gaudenzia, a gray mare who had won three Palios in ’54, when besides the traditional July and August races, the town had added a September event as part of the Pope’s yearlong celebration of the Virgin.
“I know,” she said. “But I want to do it anyway.”
To her surprise, he didn’t protest or condescend. He nodded.
Around a potted lemon came a waiter leading a petite woman in a pink dress, arm in arm with an older man with a short white beard who was wearing a pale blue plaid sports shirt tucked into olive green trousers. They were sharing a joke, the woman giggling. Michael, visibly surprised, said, “Julie?” The woman dropped the man’s arm and gave Michael a confused half smile, her cheeks flushing.
“Nice to see you again,” she said.
“This is my wife, Scottie.” Julie gave Scottie a longer look. Scottie offered her hand politely.
Michael said, “Julie’s married to a friend of mine from Yale.”
“Duncan sent me off to do some sightseeing,” Julie said, a little stiffly. “He’s always trying to get rid of me. Tuscany is so beautiful. We’ve come to see the Palio.” Michael looked at the older man, and Julie jumped in. “This is my guide, Signor Giannelli. Duncan said it wasn’t safe to travel alone.”
“True,” said Michael. “He was absolutely right.”
“Maybe we could have a table with a view of the tower,” said Signor Giannelli smoothly to the waiter, who led them away to a farther table as Michael and Scottie gave a polite wave.
“Is this Duncan a close friend of yours?” asked Scottie when they were out of earshot. Michael never talked about friends.
“He works at the embassy in Rome.”
“Oh. She seems nice.”
“Yes, well,” said Michael, preoccupied, “I don’t know her well. Look,” he added. “You’ve had a long day and probably want a bath. Let’s get a quick dinner and make it an early night.”
As they stood up and left, Scottie could feel Julie’s eyes on her.
8.
The sight of Julie was a shock. What was she of all people doing in Siena? Who was that Italian she was with? Could snooty little Julie have a lover? An older man, no less? He wondered if he should tell Duncan he had seen her, or let her tell him. It felt good to know something Duncan didn’t.
If Duncan had sent Julie away now, why hadn’t he invited Michael to stay longer? Why was he sitting here in Siena when they could have been dining now in a little place in Piazza del Popolo? Heading back for a night together, perhaps pulling the bed out onto the huge terrace with the potted lemon trees. Was Duncan lying there now, looking over the lights of the city? Was he alone? A flame of jealousy rose in him.
“She and her husband are terrible snobs,” he told Scottie.
“I could tell,” she said, and he loved her for it.
9.
They moved over to Ristorante Il Campo, where Signor Tommaso had saved a table for them with an excellent view of the milling crowds. Again she sat side by side with Michael rather than across from him, so that she could people-watch. At the table next to her, an older couple were also sitting side by side, arguing in a friendly way. She tried to eavesdrop, only to practice her Italian, she told herself. Barbaresco, quattordici anni. Rapinato. They were talking about Robertino, she realized in amazement. She tried to remember what rapinato meant—kidnapped?
She leaned closer, as if she were just resting on an arm of her chair. The couple did not seem to notice her listening. The man was owlish-looking, with sandy hair, thick glasses and a light plaid sport jacket. The woman had dark hair in a swinging bob and was dressed stylishly in what looked like Balmain.
“Scottie,” said Michael.
She looked at him.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “They’re talking about Robertino.”
“I heard they received one of his ears in the mail,” said the woman to the man.
Scottie gasped. The couple turned and looked at her in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” she said in Italian. “It’s just that I hadn’t heard that. Did that happen today?”
She could see that Michael was tongue-tied and embarrassed by her eavesdropping. How did he hope to succeed as a salesman if he was so shy?
The couple nodded at Scottie, visibly adjusting their expectations of the woman they had assumed was a tourist. “You speak Italian,” they said approvingly. “But you are not Italian?”
“Siamo americani,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m learning Italian from the missing boy, Robertino Banchi.”
“Oh!” they said.
The waiter brought plates of velvety pappardelle col sugo di lepre. Ecco sat up, his nose twitching.
“You said rapinato,” Scottie said. “What makes you think he was kidnapped?”
“I heard that there was a ransom note,” said the man, “but it may be a false rumor.”
“Is that really true about the ear?” Scottie asked.
“Well…,” said the woman, her earrings dangling in the candlelight. “It’s something I heard.”
“He’s not just my teacher, he’s my friend. I went to the stable where he worked. I can’t seem to get any information at all. I heard his mother … died.”
Michael looked at her sharply.
“Drugs,” she added.
Michael again shot her a look.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Very sad.”
“Probably a client gave them to her,” said Scottie. “Or a pimp. Out there on the Cassia. Apparently the Mafia is making heroin.” Michael’s eyes widened.
The Italian man went on as Scottie listened, leaning forward in her chair.
“There have been other kidnappings,” he said. “Sardi.” He was referring to the new crop of immigrants from Sardinia who had moved in to fill positions as shepherds when local Tuscans like Ecco’s previous owner fled to factory jobs in the northern cities of Milan and Turin. The Sienese looked with mistrust on the newcomers, and suspected them of every crime.
“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 man, 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.