A Buyer of Ox Skins
It was on the day Giorgio returned to Siena that Farfalla was sold again. A buyer of ox skins, Signor Busisi by name, was making one of his regular trips to the Maremma. He was a big-framed, bushy-browed man with a shock of white hair. As he drove along in his shiny new Fiat, he was sorting skins in his mind—all sizes, all qualities. He was not even thinking about horses. And he was trying very hard not to notice his nagging indigestion.
Signor Busisi was from Siena, and therefore he was first of all a strong contrada man with a passion for the Palio. Besides, he was a canny judge of horseflesh. In years past his horses had won no less than five Palio banners, a record few owners could match! And when he had no entry for the Palio, he sat as a judge of the trials, helping to choose the ten horses that would run, out of the twenty or more presented. His fellow judges held him in great respect, often waiting for him to nod the decisive "yes" or "no."
Of course, being an honest man and a realistic one, Signor Busisi admitted to himself that over the years he had purchased some weedy horses with faults too numerous and embarrassing to think about. And so he did not think about them. Besides, he was getting on in years, trying to ignore the pains around his heart and the frequent attacks of indigestion. "I've got a lot of age on me," he told himself. "No time for regrets; for me the spring flowers will bloom only a few times more. Better it is to look ahead." And so in the years remaining he was determined to live each day as if it were the last to shine upon him.
On this morning of April the Maremma country was the color of clear emeralds, the birds singing, and nothing between earth and sky except, coming over the hill ahead, a tall, airy-striding cart horse.
The Signore slowed down and pulled off to the edge of the road. He got out and unbuckled his belt a notch. The pangs of indigestion were sharpening. Perhaps walking around a bit, exchanging the time of day with a country carter, might ease the pain.
Before he greeted the man, he unconsciously took stock of the mare. To himself he said, "She must be well over sixteen hands high. Good legs and feet. Fine bone beneath the rough coat. Barrel too thin, head and throttle excellent. Eyes dominant."
The carter meanwhile was sizing up the automobile and the owner. "Is new—the car. Is old—the man. And rich. I wonder, will he permit that I haul goods for him from here to there?"
"Buon giorno," Signor Busisi said in a loud voice, noticing the ear trumpet.
The carter bowed until his chin touched his grease-stained shirt.
"Your mare," the Signore began, "how is she called?"
"Si, si. She for sale."
"Not so quick, my good man," the Signore bellowed. "I only ask how you call her."
The carter was unabashed. He grinned, showing yellow, horselike teeth. "She has the name Farfalla. She is daughter from Maremma mare and Sans Souci."
"Incredible!" the Signore exclaimed. "That accounts for the quality look."
"Eh?" the driver asked, holding up his trumpet.
"Incredible!"
The grin widened. "How long you stay in Maremma?"
"Today only."
The carter scratched his nose thoughtfully. Money jingling in his pocket and wine on the table would be better than a no-good mare. "Signore," he said in a nasal, wheedling voice, "you like buy my mare?"
Signor Busisi made no answer. At close range he saw that she was no longer young. "What age has she?" he asked.
"Eh?"
"How many years has she?"
"Oh, she very young. She has only four years," the man boasted, smiling at his deception.
Signor Busisi ignored the answer. There was that certain something about her—perhaps it was the arch of the neck and the high-flowing tail, perhaps it was the enormousness of the eyes. But somehow, in spite of her rough coat and her shoes too big and the ramshackle cart, in spite of everything, she had dignity and nobility. The Signore felt that the carter and he, himself, suffered by comparison.
All at once his indigestion was gone! Excitement caught hold of him. He did not want another horse for his own; he felt himself too old. But he was not too old to place her, to give her a chance. She could be good, even great. "Who knows without the trial?" he asked himself.
Sensing a quick sale, the carter was like a tiger cat sniffing its prey. And agile as the cat he leaped from the cart—eyes greedy, hands ready. He held out the reins.
"Not yet! Not yet!" Signor Busisi protested. "I make only the offer."
"And I only look at her shoes," the carter lied. "A stone maybe is caught. I take best care of Farfalla. Always I stop to clean out her feet."
"I am certain you do."
"What you say you give me?"
"I did not say. But I do now. I will give sixty thousand lire."
The carter sneered. "Six thousand lire!" he shouted angrily. "More money I could get for one old, deaf, mangy donkey with red blotches and no hair." He spat on the ground with as much venom as if he had hit the man with his spittle.
Signor Busisi remained unruffled, waiting for a noisy motorcycle to go by. "I said sixty thousand lire," he repeated, more loudly this time.
The change in the carter was electric. He bowed low, kissing the Signore's hand.
Quick as a flash the mare took advantage of her owner's bent position. She drew back her lips, and with her big teeth pinched hard through the seat of his trousers.
"Ee-ee-ee-ow!" he screeched, trying in vain to break the viselike grip. It was only by the intervention of the laughing Signor Busisi that she let go.
Rubbing his bruised flesh, the carter promptly agreed that for the sum of sixty thousand lire he would deliver the mare to Siena in a day or two.
Signor Busisi suddenly felt young and strong again. Trying to suppress his laughter, he jackknifed his big frame into his car, swung into the road and roared on to Casalino, thinking, planning, dreaming. Somehow he would do it again—bring the right man and the right horse together. It was a never-failing source of wonderment to him how it came about. That black gelding he had sold to a man of the clergy, and the trick sorrel to a clown in the circus....
His thoughts broke off. He was nearing the warehouse where the ox skins would be already dried and dressed, awaiting his selection. He must put the mare out of his mind; and he did. For the time being.
