Gaudenzia, Joy of Living
Ten o'clock seemed years away. To hurry the time, Giorgio went to the public bath and gave himself a good scrubbing. He worked hard on the labyrinthian creases in his ears. Perhaps Uncle Marco had examined them for a reason.
At supper back at the Ramallis' home he ate his macaroni in a trance, almost forgetting to say "Buon appetito" beforehand. There was chocolate and strawberry ice cream for dessert, served in special honor of his departure. Absentmindedly, he mashed and melted the two colors together, toying rather than tasting.
"Is something wrong with the ice cream?" Signora Ramalli asked in concern.
For answer Giorgio quickly shoved a spoonful into his mouth. How could he explain his excitement when perhaps it would amount to nothing at all?
After supper Anna wheedled him into a game of dominoes, but his eye was on the clock more than on the counters. When at last it was time to go, he grabbed his jacket and tore down the stairs and out into the street. He ran swiftly at first; then as the lane twisted and steepened, he had to slow to a walk. Someone had forgotten to take a parrot inside. The cage hung on a balcony and its occupant screamed and scolded Giorgio as if he were to blame.
On ordinary evenings he would have talked back, but tonight nothing could delay him. He did not even peer into the cobbler's shop for memory's sake, nor into the public laundry. Nor did he stop to look through the gates to the great houses.
Tonight he flew by his landmarks as he climbed the Via Fontebranda, crossed the busy Via di Città and came out at last into the fairyland of Il Campo. He caught his breath at the contrast from the morning market. The jumbled confusion of flapping blankets and spreads and the splashing colors of fruits and vegetables, and the hawkers screaming—all this was gone. The Piazza was a shell of emptiness. High up in the palace windows the winking lights seemed faraway planets, but in the circle of shops below they burned steady and close together like a necklace of fire opals.
The night was softly warm. A score of small round tables had been set out in front of the café near the Fonte Gaia. Most of them were occupied. Giorgio thought he recognized some of the people from Uncle Marco's audience. He stood facing across the vast square to the canyon of the street where the Chief lived. It was black as a mousehole. Like a cat, Giorgio watched it, never taking his eyes away. It was magic how the Chief came, as if the very looking had pulled him out of the darkness. At first he was only a tall block of white. Then gradually the block developed two legs, and with lithe grace they were advancing across the square, directly toward Giorgio.
When the two met, the Chief purposely stood on the down-slope so that he and Giorgio were more nearly the same height. Then he glanced up at the Mangia Tower. The lone hand on the clock pointed almost to the hour. He smiled in approval.
"We meet early, no?"
Giorgio nodded, too breathless to speak.
"Come, my boy," the Chief said. "See that little table apart from the others? There the long-eared folk won't hear us."
A waiter arrived at the table simultaneously. "Buona sera," he bowed. Then he wiped the chair where the Chief would sit, and gave the table a thorough cleaning. "Now then." He arched his eyebrows, awaiting the order. "Would you like a chocolate? An ice cream? Or a coffee, perhaps?"
"What will you have, Giorgio?" the Chief inquired.
"I will take a coffee, if you please."
"We will each take the same, waiter."
There was no talk at all before the coffees arrived. Somewhere from the heights of a palace window came a string of staccato notes, clear and strong. It was flute music, the "March of the Palio."
Giorgio wiped the anxious moisture from his palms. A distant church bell chimed the hour. The time had come! And with it the two steaming cups.
"Sugar?" The waiter held the bowl first for the Chief, then set it down in front of Giorgio. Two spoonfuls went into each tiny cup, and both the man and the boy stirred vigorously, as if they had no other thought on their minds. In unison, too, they sipped the sweet bitterness.
At last the Chief looked directly at Giorgio. "Well, boy? Did you go today to the Street Market?"
"Si, si."
"Did you buy the umbrella?"
"No, Signore." Giorgio hesitated. "You see, Uncle Marco is my very good friend. He said the umbrella now is not needed. Instead, he gave me, for luck, a coral horn and a rabbit's foot."
A smile crossed the Chief's lips. "I will start from the first." He set down his cup. "Now then! Two tradesmen from Seggiano have engaged me to purchase for them the mare, Farfalla."
Giorgio drew in a quick breath. Why did the very mention of her name give him a shock?
"They have commissioned me," the Chief went on, "to make the purchase from Doctor Celli and to forward the mare to Seggiano."
"But why? Is it for the racing?"
The Chief shook his head sadly. "I prefer not to think of her fate. Those men are traders in all manner of beasts."
"Could you ..." Giorgio's mind darted ahead. He grew startled at his own daring. "Please, Signore, could you not buy the mare yourself?"
For a moment there was stony silence. Then in a voice cold and stern, the Chief asked, "Who told you to say this? Signor Busisi? Doctor Celli?"
"Oh no, Signore."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certain."
The big man relaxed, and his face broke into a pleased grin. "Good! A boy who can read a man's mind can also read a horse's." Then he leaned forward, punctuating his words with excited gestures. "Already have I gone to Signor Busisi. I tell him I am commissioned to buy the mare, but in my heart I hide the secret hope of keeping her."
Giorgio barely managed to get the next words out. "Is all settled?"
"No, no. Nothing is settled! With her what would I do? Where would I keep her? Who would exercise her? I have nobody to do this. Besides, she has the nervous malady."
Giorgio's mouth went dry. He could not speak. He took a gulp of coffee, but still no words came.
The Chief was using both hands now, his words ringing sharp and clear. "In spite that she did not reach expectation, in spite that she is tortured by the bad leg and the nervous tic, the daughter of Sans Souci deserves better than to be put down."
Suddenly the boy found his voice. "Oh, I believe it, too! I believe!"
"The money to buy her—that I now have."
Giorgio's heart raced. He thought he had the answer. He knew it was the answer. "I ... I will train her!" he gasped.
There was no reply. Only the flute piping in the palace window.
Giorgio leaped to his feet, almost upsetting his chair. "Do not worry about the stable," he said. "In the Maremma I can winter her. Babbo has a very nice barn. Nobody lives there, nobody but little Pippa, our donkey."
Still no reply.
Giorgio persisted. "Signore! I myself can ride her to Monticello. At once!"
The Chief pursed his lips, thinking. There was worry in his face as he mulled over the proposal. He had asked expressly for this meeting, had hoped earnestly that Giorgio would have the same desire to rescue the mare. But now he was appalled by the depth of the boy's emotion. He studied the slight figure, the young face so full of eager determination. What if the mare were beyond help? Was the boy's faith too high a price to pay? What would happen to him if he failed?
Their eyes met and held. Giorgio put out his hand and suddenly the Chief reached across the table and took it in a clasp so strong it seemed as if some unseen force were bringing them together. For a moment they both fell silent, tasting their dreams. Giorgio was living his day of triumph. He saw the Palio square alive with people, and heard voices crying the names of their contradas, but mostly they were screaming to a white mare, winging her in.
Still handfast, the Chief cried, "Forza! Forza!"
The waiter came running. "You call me?"
"No, no," the Chief laughed heartily. "We are in the Palio."
The waiter nodded in complete understanding. There was nothing surprising in this.
"Giorgio!" The Chief spoke now in whispered confidence. "No wonder Farfalla fails. Who wants 'butterfly' for horse? We change her name! I am a man very earthy. For me, Gaudenzia is the name I favor. It is strong like marching music. Gau-den-zia," he repeated softly, lingering over each syllable. "Joy-of-living. You like?"
"I like!"
The Chief squared his shoulders. "From this very moment," he said, "the destiny of the mare changes. She will get a new name, a new life!"
"Gau-den-zia, Gaudenzia." Slowly Giorgio tested it on his tongue. The happiness was almost beyond bearing.
"That Uncle Marco," chuckled the Chief, "did he not save you the price of the umbrella? Who could hold the umbrella on horseback? It is only for sultan of the desert, not for warrior of the Palio!" He threw back his head, laughing as light-heartedly as a boy, and the flutter of notes from the palace window echoed their happiness.
