Giorgio Meets a Snail
As Giorgio rode to one victory after another, more and more people came to watch. Word of his skill began to travel. It trickled like a wind with a growing strength, first to the little towns on the fringe of the Maremma, then to the foothills of Mount Amiata, and finally it sifted through the mountain passes to the ancient walled city of Siena.
There, at the bottom of a steep, winding street known as Fontebranda, lived a horseman belonging to the Contrada of the Snail. He was owner of some rental properties, farms and homes, and he lived comfortably on the rents they brought in. But what he really lived on was an intangible thing, a pride in his daughter, Anna. For her he would have plucked the moon and the stars. But since she shared his love of horses, he settled for a fine stable. He kept four horses, sometimes five, and he made sure they were burnished like copper, trained by the most skilled, and ridden by men with sensitive hands.
His name was Signor Ramalli. He had never won a Palio, but he never gave up trying. One day in the spring of the year he made an excursion to the Maremma for the express purpose of seeking out a certain horseboy. He did not leave Siena until after his noon meal, and he stopped here and there in villages along the road to buy a bottle of olive oil, a jug of wine, and a brisket of veal; so it was nearing nightfall when he reached the hilltop village of Monticello. He inquired of a cobbler the way to Giorgio's house. The man poked his head into Signor Ramalli's automobile and with a breath rich in garlic directed him up the steep, tortuous lane to a flight of steps flanked by potted geraniums.
When the Signore found the house, there was scarce room enough to park his car nearby, but he managed to wedge it in a crook of space made by several lanes coming together. Then with a smile for the curious children who gathered around, he walked up the worn steps and knocked on the door.
Giorgio's small brother opened it. "Buona sera," he said politely. "I am Emilio. And I have a sister Teria who bosses me, and a big brother who is watchkeeper of the church." All in the same breath he added, "Your vest is nice; it looks like our newborn calf."
"Newborn calf it is!" The man laughed in amusement.
Emilio's mother came hurrying out of the bedroom, tying a fresh apron over her black dress. She saw at a glance that the stranger was a city man from over the mountain.
"Buona sera," she said. "Please to excuse our little Emilio. He chatters like the wren."
Signor Ramalli bowed and removed his hat. "You have an elder son, Giorgio?" he asked.
"Si," the mother replied anxiously. "Has something happened to him?"
"No, no, Signora. Everything is most right."
"Then will you please to come in and have a coffee while you wait? At this moment Giorgio should be in the barn, bedding our donkey. Soon he comes."
"Thank you kindly, but I will go to find him; that is, if you will be so good as to direct me."
The mother stepped out onto the porch. "You go only a little downhill," she said, "just beyond the public fountain. As you go, it is on your right hand. My little Emilio here can take you, but he must hurry back."
Emilio, flushed with importance, took the stranger's hand and led him the short distance to the stable. "Giorgio!" he called out. "Here is a Signore who wants to see you!" Then reluctantly he turned and headed for home, glancing back at every step.
Giorgio was leading Pippa out between the shafts of the cart. "You come to see me?" he asked of the strange man.
Signor Ramalli stepped up and shook hands briskly. "Go on working, Giorgio, while I talk. From the fragrant smells at your house I believe a good bean soup is simmering, and I must not delay you."
Giorgio pulled the cart to the far end of the stable and tilted the shafts against the wall. The donkey, freed, trotted to an empty manger and in a raucous bray demanded her supper.
Signor Ramalli sized up the boy as he watched him pour out a measure of grain. He could not help thinking how small Giorgio appeared in the bigness of the barn, but he was not going to change his mind now. The boy might be little, yet he was wiry, had good muscle, straight, sturdy legs, and he worked quickly and with purpose. The man laughed softly to himself; he was analyzing the boy as he would a horse!
"I am Ramalli of Siena," he explained. "I am a Snail."
Giorgio spun around. "You are what?" He took in the man's features, and saw on his forehead a wen bigger than the bulb on a snail's antenna. Is that why, he wondered, the man calls himself a snail?
"I belong to the Contrada of the Snail."
"Oh?" The word contrada sparked a lightning chain of thought direct to the Palio.
"My main activity is horses and racing."
Giorgio stopped his work. He bowed to the man as if he were a king or a cardinal. Then in his excitement he began scratching the donkey, kneading down the dark stripe along her back. He took a breath, listening.
"I have heard of your skill in racing, and...." Signor Ramalli paused to let the full weight of his words take meaning. "I propose that you ride for me."
The boy's heart seemed to stop altogether, then hammered wildly against his chest. Speechless, he waited for more.
"Yes," the man was saying, "I propose that you ride for me in the little races in the provinces."
Giorgio felt suddenly as if he had been dropped into a well. "Wh-wh-where?" he stammered, hoping he had misunderstood.
"In the nearby small towns—in Asciano, in Montalcino, in Poggibonsi, and others. You can continue to work on your father's farm, and come away only on festival days. And you will not need to bother with special racing costume."
Signor Ramalli came forward, and now he too began ruffling Pippa's mane. "Does it not please you?" he asked.
Giorgio blushed, trying to hide his disappointment. In his mind he could hear his father saying, "All in one day Rome was not built! Time it takes to build a city; and time, too, to build a man."
Everything was quiet, except for Pippa's teeth grinding the grain to a mealy mush.
At last Giorgio nodded soberly and replied in a voice he hardly knew as his own. "Grazie, Signor Ramalli, I will ride for you."
Across the donkey's back man and boy shook hands.
"In Siena," Signor Ramalli smiled, "each contrada has 'protectors.' Do you know what they are, my boy?" He waited for an answer, but when none came he went on. "A protector is a person who believes in the people of a certain contrada and does all he can to help them; he offers friendship, advice, and money, too. It is a kind of kinship."
"I understand."
"It is my wish now to be protector to the little runt of Monticello!" He smiled again, and the term from his lips took on a note of affection. "In you," he said with a final warm handclasp, "I have great faith."
That night in bed Giorgio lay awake a long time, thrashing out his disappointment. To race in the little festivals was not what he had hoped for; but perhaps—he tried to comfort himself—perhaps it was a beginning.
