It was long past midnight when Giorgio was allowed to enter Gaudenzia’s stable in the Contrada of the Giraffa. In his hands he carried a kit containing boric acid, a jar of animal grease, and a piece of linen torn from a once-fine tablecloth.
The mare had been lying asleep, but at the sound of the boy’s voice she struggled to her feet. He turned his head away. He could not bring himself to face her. Not even glancing in her direction, he asked permission of the barbaresco to treat her wounds.
With a look of understanding the man nodded his consent. “This Palio must have been for you like a bang in the stomach,” he said.
Silently Giorgio tore the length of linen into strips. He sopped several in the solution of boric acid. He wrung them out. He doused them again, wrung them out again.
“How many times you going to do that?” the barbaresco asked. “How is it you can face San Martino, but not her? Some time you got to do it.”
Miserable, torn by conscience, Giorgio walked tremblingly toward her. Staring at the floor, still unable to look up, he took one step and then another. He felt himself grown suddenly old and bent under his burden of guilt. He wished the distance between them would stretch out and with each step courage would flow into him, but already he was so close he could feel her breath. He closed his eyes, prayed, then forced them to focus on her, and he almost cried, he felt so happy. Even with the red welts she was still beautiful! There was a new quality about her, a kind of spiritual quality, as if she had come through a fire, untouched. Her eyes were fixed on him and they were soft and amber-lit, and the nostrils fluttered and made a little sound, and the ears asked for talk as if this reunion were just like all the others—warm and wonderful and good.
Giorgio gulped. If only she had laid back her ears and come charging at him, or taken a bite through his shirt, fierce enough to show for a lifetime. And though he wanted to sink down upon his knees, and laugh and cry both, and beg forgiveness, yet at sight of the barbaresco watching he went to work like some veterinarian. He washed the cuts across her forehead, and the cross-cuts behind her ear. Then, with the gentlest of fingers, he rubbed the grease into them.
“Gaudenzia!” he said when he had finished ministering. “Now there should be no scars. Those reminders I could not bear. Do you know,” he added under his breath, “do you understand that you won all by yourself—like the little clay model in Monticello?”
The mare pricked her ears. Whatever it was the boy had said made a nice melody. She raised her head and let out a whinny that bounced back and forth from the stone walls again and again until it faded in a trembly echo. “I bear you no ill will,” it said, more plainly than any words.
• • •
A few stars were still winking bright and alive when Giorgio left Gaudenzia and walked purposefully to the post office. He had often sent night telegrams for Signor Ramalli. Now he would send one for himself.
The pen on the counter was forked and rusty and the ink lumpy, but the words uncorked themselves like strong wine.
YOUR EXCELLENCE MONSIGNOR TARDINI. I LOST BUT GAUDENZIA WON. BY HERSELF. SHE PAID NO ATTENTION TO ARRANGEMENTS. CAN YOU ATTEND HER VICTORY DINNER FOR ONDA NEXT MONTH? SHE WILL EAT AT HEAD TABLE WITH OFFICIALS AND ME. IF YOU HAVE FORGOT ME I AM GIORGIO TERNI ALSO VITTORINO.
• • •
The sleepy-eyed clerk squinted out from behind the window of his cage and accepted the message with a loud yawn. As he read it, he snapped sharply awake. “To Monsignor Tardini!” he gasped. “Is it urgente? And have you the money?”
Giorgio felt in his pocket. “Si, si!” he laughed. “At once it must go.”
It was a nice twist of fate that the victory dinner for Gaudenzia’s win for the Onda was held in September after her riderless victory for the Giraffa. It made the Onda dinner more important and exciting. Giorgio as her fantino in the first race received a command invitation from General Barbarulli.
And so, on the twenty-sixth day of September, at eight o’clock in the evening, he set out full of eagerness, and in his good suit, for the Contrada of the Onda. On all sides he was met and joined by happy contradaioli going his way.
As he climbed the steep, cobbly streets, an old saying of his father’s jumped into his mind. “An end is just a beginning. The dog chases his tail, and that is the way of life; the end and the beginning, they meet!” His mother always laughed then and said the same thing, but not using dogs’ tails. “Sunsets are very beautiful sight,” she would say, “because they make not an end, but a promise.”
The promise was so beautiful it made Giorgio frightened and tremulous with joy at the same time. “It will be that way with Gaudenzia,” he thought. “She is only beginning to use her powers, her blood by Sans Souci.” He strode faster, passing some of the people who had before passed him. Everywhere people were pouring out of doorways, going to pay homage to a cart horse of great valor. Tonight he was one of them . . . a Sienese. He loved every ancient stone of the city. Nowhere else had he ever felt history as something holy, eternally engraved in stones and in mind and soul.
The Chief-of-the-Guards caught up with him, put a protecting arm around his shoulder. “I bring you two messages,” he said in a voice strangely husky. “Affairs of state prevent Monsignor Tardini from attending.” He paused and tightened his lips to master his feelings. “And the other news is . . .”
“Yes?” Giorgio felt a cold clutch of fear.
“Your Umbrella Man . . .”
“What about him?”
“Coming here, on his way to celebrate Gaudenzia’s victory, he died.”
“He—what?”
“He got as far as my house, with a beautiful green umbrella for you . . . not oiled cloth, but silk! Real silk!”
Giorgio’s throat went dry. He knew he ought to say something, but it was queer how he felt, as if someone had put a heavy hand on his chest and another on his back between the shoulder blades and the two hands pressed and pressed until all the breath was squeezed out of him. Why was it always like this? Why always the joy choked by sorrow?
“Giorgio,” the Chief said softly, “do not grieve. Uncle Marco was a very old man. He saw many, many Palios. And he died smiling. ‘Tell little Giorgio Terni,’ he said, ‘tell him that way, way back when he was a knee-high boy, my storytelling begat a very fine fantino!’ ”
Giorgio listened. As he walked arm-in-arm with the Chief, he put the news in a deep chamber of his heart and drew a curtain over it, not of forgetting but of warm remembrance. The pilgrimage to Onda included the seen and the unseen now.
They had reached the Via Giovanni Duprè, and they both went through the archway and stopped short, transfixed by what they saw. Before them the wavy street, which had given to the contrada its strange name, The Wave, was a mosaic of brilliant lights and colors—glowing, surging, colors—all the colors of the sea when the sun throws millions of sparkles on it. And there, ablaze in front of the noble old church of San Giuseppe, hung the Palio banner that Gaudenzia had won! It too was like the sea, catching all the rays of light and sending them out again. At its sides two dolphins swam in an ocean of blue, their tongues spurting living flames. And under the banner and the sweeping arc of lights, and under the flags flying, and the flowers cascading from windows and balconies, hundreds of tables were laid with snowy-white cloths. But no one was seated. People were milling about, milling and singing and shouting.
Giorgio suddenly found himself pulled into their midst, and friends and strangers alike were pumping his hand and slapping his back and saluting him on both cheeks. General Barbarulli stood laughing at his bewilderment. He beckoned him to the head table, for coming up a side street was Gaudenzia with her barbaresco.
The crowd made a little corridor for Giorgio to pass, and another for Gaudenzia, so that soon they would meet at the head table. But Giorgio arrived first and he saw her coming toward him with that wonderfully long stride of hers. She looked more like a painting than real, with the embroidered velvet horsecloth thrown over her
body and the blue-and-white plumes nodding in her headstall. But what made his heart leap was that her scars did not show!
Nearby and far off, the contradaioli shouted, “Behold our Queen!” And in their fervor they rushed to kiss her, to fling their arms about her, but she flattened her ears and laid her teeth bare. The crowd applauded, admiring her spirit. “Let her fantino greet her for us,” an old man called out.
Giorgio went to her, and eye to clear eye was threaded. For a long second he let her snuff the quiet of his hands. Then with her barbaresco he accompanied her to the manger at the head table. It was brimful of oats, with apples and carrots sliced in among the plump kernels. Knowing her love of salt, he picked up a shaker from the table and salted her dinner well.
“Buon appetito!” someone cried, and immediately Gaudenzia plunged her muzzle into the manger as if she understood the toast.
Joy rose to incredible heights. Fingers that failed to touch Gaudenzia now reached out and touched Giorgio as he took his place between Captain Tortorelli and the General.
At last the feast that was weeks in the preparing was brought in—plates of antipasto, platters of steaming chicken, and bowls of spaghetti in meat sauce. It surprised Giorgio that he was heaping his plate high, eating with gusto, and singing between mouthfuls, singing at the top of his lungs.
“Of you we are proud!” the General beamed. “You eat and sing for the Umbrella Man, too. He was a fine eater, that one.”
The speeches came next. Long ones, short ones. But Giorgio enjoyed most the tributes addressed to Gaudenzia directly: “Thank you, Gaudenzia, for the beautiful Palio you have conquered for us; for the rewarding of our secret, tenacious belief in you. Have your sensitive ears heard the saying: ‘Fate is Queen of the Palio’? Believe it not. For now there is a new Queen, and her name is Gaudenzia!”
The applause was like a volcano erupting, like a crashing of thunder, like a dike opened in flood time. Giorgio forgot he was at the head table with all the dignitaries. He rose to his feet shouting “Bravissima!” with the populace; “Bravissima, Gaudenzia, the Queen!”
When the roar and thunder subsided, the General grew serious. “The time has come,” he said thoughtfully, earnestly, “to reflect upon the ancient yet always new spectacle of the Palio. Already the victory of July seems far away, and already we know the noble results of the August Palio. But,” he leaned toward the multitude, his eyes glistening, “in nine months and twenty-nine days the yellow-ochre earth will again cover the cobbles of the Piazza, and again memory and hope will kindle the massive heart of Siena. This Palio is forever written into the archives. Now we turn to a new page.”
The victory feast was ended. The band players were striking up once more the sweet, haunting “March of the Palio.” People were running toward the banner to kiss it in homage. The waiters were clearing the tables. The barbaresco was leading Gaudenzia away. Giorgio gave the man his moment of glory. Tomorrow would be time enough to call for her from the fine stable of Onda and walk her back home to the Maremma. Yes, tomorrow would be time enough. . . .
The echo of drums accompanied Giorgio as he walked down into the city for a last look at Il Campo. A harvest moon bulged out from behind the Mangia Tower, washing the palaces in a pale red glow. He listened a while to the fountain playing its tinkly tune in the vastness.
“Nine months and twenty-nine days is not so very far away,” he thought. “Why, that is less time than it takes a mare to foal a colt!”
AND NOW . . .
With all of his heart Giorgio Terni believed that Gaudenzia’s first victories were only a beginning. And so they were. Proving herself queen, she went on to win the Extraordinary Palio that fall, held in honor of the Marian Year. Giorgio was again her fantino. Thousands of people shuddered as she flung herself at the starting rope, then leaped over it before it touched the ground. From that moment on she won the race majestically, unchallenged. It was her third victory in succession. In all of Palio history no horse had ever done this before!
Strangely enough, Gaudenzia is famed, too, for not racing. Because of her spectacular record she was excluded from both Palios in the following year. She was too great a threat to the other contenders. But the next year, in deference to the will of the people, they allowed her to race again. And again she won.
Where is Gaudenzia now? As befitting a queen, she lives in a medieval castle near Siena, one with a history longer than the Palio. In this eventful place where pacts were made and wars were plotted, she has her stable-home. It is big and high-ceilinged, with windows that open wide upon the sweeping hills of Tuscany.
Is she lonely there? Perhaps. But in the months to come there may be a colt for her to nurse, and to teach to race. Meanwhile, she has a hunting dog for company, a groom to exercise her, and visitors from near and far—as far away as America. Most of them she eyes in an aloof and regal manner, permitting none to touch her. She seems always to be looking through and beyond them, looking for a familiar slight-built figure. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon her looking is rewarded, for among the visitors comes Giorgio, man-grown now.
Nostrils fluttering, she sifts the mixture of scents, sorting and discarding until she finds the right one. Then with a small whicker of remembering, she reaches out to welcome him.
Always their reunion is the same. Giorgio extends his open hand, and after she has licked the salt from it, she playfully nips his shirtsleeve and snuffs his hair. Always it is like this. Never any demanding, “Where were you last Sunday?” Only her eyes holding his, and her ears flicked for the tone of his voice.
“Gaudenzia,” he tells her, “the others cannot hold the candle to you. You are still the pride of the Palio, and I’ll be back to see you again, maybe in the time of the little fingernail moon or when the moon is full. Maybe both times!”
And usually he is.
For helping her understand the mystery and meaning of the Palio, the author is grateful to:
LELIO BARBARULLI, Chief Magistrate of the Contrada Onda, and his daughter GLORIA, Siena
GIUSEPPE BOSI, guide, Siena
EZIO CANTAGALLI, President of Ente Provinciale per il Turismo, Siena
TAMI GUROVICH CASCINO, Professor of Literature, Siena
GIORGIO CELLI, Doctor of Accounting, Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena
MARIO CELLI, Manager of the newspaper Il Campo di Siena, and his daughter PAULA, Siena
MARIO CHIGIOTTI, Manager of Ente Provinciale per il Turismo, Siena
ANGELINA CIAMBELLOTTI, President of Centro Italiano Femminile, Siena
EGIDIO CORSINI, Vicar of the Contrada Giraffa, Siena
MARIO COSTANTI, Castello Medioevale di Bibbiano Buonconvento, Tuscany
DOROTHA DAWSON, Supervisor of School Libraries, and JULIA COE, Detroit, Michigan
FINI DEMOLITO, Captain of the Contrada Giraffa, Siena
VITTORIO DE SANTI, Captain of the Contrada Nicchio, Siena
ETTORE FONTANI, owner of many Palio horses, Siena
BENITO GIACHETTI, Chief of the Guards, Siena
VASCO GIUSTI, Contrada Giraffa, Siena
GIOVANNI GOVERNATO, interpreter and Doctor of Accounting, Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena
GUIDO GUIDARINI, official starter of the race, Siena
RUTH HARSHAW, conductor of “Carnival of Books” radio program, Chicago
VERONICA HUTCHINSON, author and book buyer, Halle’s, Cleveland, Ohio
RICHARD A. KNOBLOCK, Colonel, U.S. Air Force, American Embassy, Rome
ALDO LENZI, Doctor of Veterinary Science, Siena
KATHERINE LINDSAY, translator, Wayne, Illinois
ALDO LUSINI, editor of the periodical Terra di Siena
CONTE GOFFREDO MANFREDI, Rome
TOMMASO MASINI, Secretary to the Mayor of Siena
DELLA MCGREGOR, Chief of Youth Services, Public Library, St. Paul, Minnesota
MARIO NERI, President of Cine Club, Siena
ALFREDO PIANIGIANI, owner of many Palio horses, Siena
VINCENZO RAM
ALLI, owner of many Palio horses, and his daughter ANNA, Siena
MARIO ROSSETTI, Doctor of Accounting, Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena
NELLO SAINATI, Westchester, Illinois, who vividly recreated the Tuscany of his boyhood
RENATO SENESI, Manager of the Azienda Autonoma del Turismo, Siena
ERICA STOPPINI, counselor and friend, and her daughter MARIA LUISA, Siena
ROBERTA SUTTON, mentor, Chicago, Illinois
DOMENICO CARDINAL TARDINI, Secretary of State of the Vatican
GIORGIO TERNI, his mother, his father, his sister TERIA and his brother EMILIO, Monticello Amiata
THE MOST REVEREND MARIO TOCCABELLI, Archbishop of Siena
ADRIANO TORTORELLI, Captain of the Contrada Onda, Siena
All the boys of Villa Nazareth and their teachers, Rome
WILLIAM WINQUIST, horseman, Wayne, Illinois
RAIMONDO ZALAFFI, journalist, Siena
MARGUERITE HENRY was the beloved author of such classic horse stories as KING OF THE WIND, MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE, and STORMY, MISTY’S FOAL, all of which are available in Aladdin paperback editions.
Simon & Schuster, New York
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OTHER BOOKS BY MARGUERITE HENRY
Album of Horses
Benjamin West and His Cat Grimalkin
Black Gold
Born to Trot
Brighty of the Grand Canyon
Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley
Cinnabar, the One O’Clock Fox
Justin Morgan Had a Horse
King of the Wind
Misty of Chincoteague
Misty’s Twilight
Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West
San Domingo, the Medicine Hat Stallion
Sea Star
Stormy, Misty’s Foal
White Stallion of Lipizza