The Odd Pieces Again

He was still gulping for air, but he had to move before the horses came around again. He felt a pair of strong hands grasping his upper arms, helping to lift him.

Feeling less hurt than humiliated, he pulled away. It was not his body that needed help. He made his knees bend one at a time, and he pushed himself up. And he got to his feet under his own power and as the horses whirled past, he went tottering alongside, clinging to the upright mattresses that lined the curve.

With his sleeve he wiped the sweat and a streak of blood from his face and he sucked air enough to walk head up. But the pain of remembered sounds and sights bore down on him—the sharp crack of the bullet, the instantaneous thud, the dribble of crimson, the crazed scream cut short. Then the whole world was a spinning blackness. What had happened afterward?

All about him a solid pack of humanity was streaming onto the track. The race was over! Voices came at him like cross winds, some shouting "Bravo!" and some crying in strange foreign tongues. He was sucked along with the crowd, stumbling, shuffling, pulled into their meshes like a fish into a net. Over and above the shouting came wild, deafening cheers, beating out the syllables:

"Tar-tu-ca!"

And so he knew that the Contrada of the Turtle had won. And he yelled, too, but he did not know what he yelled. He had to yell to keep from fainting, to keep from crying.

Two of his bodyguards got through the crowd to him, linked their arms in his, supporting him, buoying him along, questioning in his ear.

"How do you feel?"

"You all right?"

His head nodded "yes" but all of him felt numbed, disgraced. And his legs trembled as if at any moment they might splay and split apart. Through the shouting and joyful singing, he could hear remembered voices mocking:

"Hey, you runt of Monticello!"

"You, with the slough of the Maremma all over you!"

"Girl's hands ... girl's hands ... girl's hands...."

The words jumbled in his dizziness, and he staggered along, feeling himself littler and weaker than ever, like some fragile moth battering its wings against the walls of the centuries. He knew now what the Umbrella Man meant. The Palio was indestructible. Men could beat their fists against it. Horses and fantinos could die for it, but it would remain forever the supreme challenge.

He wanted to be alone in his agony. His guards understood, and let him go. As he went zigzagging through the crowd, he pressed his palms hard against his ears, trying to shut out the singing, and the drums beating, and the inner voices accusing. At last he stood panting before the door of Turbolento's stable.

He rang the bell, summoning the barbaresco. He knocked. No one came.

A couple walked by, arm in arm, unmindful of him. He might have been a cat scratching to be let in. He tried the latch. The door was open! He lurched into the dark emptiness. The barbaresco was not there. No one was on guard. No one was needed. He closed the door behind him, and his shaking hands locked it. The light from a street candle came in the high barred window, threw a splash of yellow on the strawed bed of Turbolento. It was freshly made, awaiting a possible victor.

Alone in the stable, with only the faraway sounds of rejoicing, Giorgio fell face down in the straw. "Mammina! Mammina!" he sobbed, and the tears so long inheld were unloosed. As he cried himself out, the sea of taunting faces melted away, and in their stead his mother's face appeared, trying to soothe him, to comfort him. "Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio," she called.

The next day millions of people were reading newspaper accounts of the Palio. Sports writers from Rome, from Florence, from Milan called it "The Race of the Broken Heart." They referred not to the death of Turbolento. That was gallant. For a horse to be killed on the field, like a soldier in battle, was beautiful. But the injury to Farfalla's leg, they said, was not only painful to her and perilous to all, but to watch her hobbling three times around the course to the very end was heartbreaking. Better she, too, had been killed.

Thus, in a few paragraphs, the race passed into history. For weeks, however, the fate of Farfalla was tossed about like a frail boat in a storm. One doctor gave her an even chance of going sound again. Another spoke frankly to her owner as father to son.

"Celli," he said, "you are a man most benevolent, but that poor mare is suffering, and time will not lessen her pain." He shook his head in sympathy. "I suggest you put her down, and the sooner it is done, the better."

Unwilling to be convinced, Doctor Celli called in a third veterinarian, a gnomelike creature with a short clipped mustache and a short clipped way of speaking. After examining Farfalla, who was biting at her manger, he made his pronouncement: "This Palio will be her last. I would at once put an end to her sufferings. What pleasure in this life does she have?"

For hours after the veterinarian had gone, Doctor Celli paced to and fro in the room where he kept his guns and hunting trophies. It was difficult to listen to one's heart and mind at the same time. As a banker he was a careful man, reasoning always with his pocketbook. A sick horse was a luxury he could ill afford. If the best doctors were ready to sign her death warrant, who was he to say, "No, this I will not do!" Yet he could not help wavering.

Perhaps, he mused, someone else would have more time to give her, more time to look in on her during the day instead of only at sunup and sundown. Would Signor Busisi know of someone? A talk with the old and wise man might be of help.

Feeling somewhat lifted in his heart, Doctor Celli went to his garage, backed out his car, and sped toward Siena. He would lay the facts in the palm of his friend and ask for a plain answer.

Within the half hour the door to the house of Busisi was opening wide and the sad, kindly face of the Signore was smiling in welcome.

"Buona sera, Celli. Come in! Come in!" The old man led the way to the dining table and pulled out a chair. "Enjoy with me the simple pleasure of food and drink. I am alone. My wife has gone to the church. Let us eat first. Then we talk of Farfalla."

There was a bottle of good red wine on the table and a nice assortment of cheeses. Signor Busisi fixed a plate of them for his guest. Without any heart for it, Doctor Celli took a small bite of the gorgonzola.

The old man remonstrated. "Celli, can you only nibble like the mouse? Eat with gusto!"

"If I eat now, Signore, the food sits heavy in my stomach. I want only to talk." He pushed his plate aside. "Already I have summoned three veterinarians for Farfalla."

"And their verdict?"

"Two advise putting her down. At once."

"You have decided?"

"No. My thoughts seesaw—first one way, then the other. You observed her in the Palio, Signore. What would you say if she were now fretting in your stable instead of in mine?"

Signor Busisi's face was grave, deeply concerned. He made a steeple of his fingertips and looked under them as if he hunted there for the answer. "Mortals are quick to destroy," he said at last. Already he was ill of a heart condition, and being on the edge of death himself seemed to give him a wisdom beyond the common man. "It takes eleven months and five days for a horse to be born into this world," he said with a faraway look. "Why do we not give the mare the same number of months and days before we sentence her to die? Perhaps in that time she will prove her destiny."

There was a long silence between them. The old man got up, paced the room thoughtfully, then stood before the window. A blood-red sun was sinking behind the city wall. With his back to Doctor Celli he said, "You are not the first to come to me today concerning the fate of Farfalla."

"So? Who else?"

"The Chief-of-the-Town-Guards. You know him?"

"Si, si. The Chief is a man most compassionate. I once saw him on a cold, bitter day restore the fallen blanket to an old bony horse."

"But the Chief came only as agent."

"Agent?"

Signor Busisi nodded.

"Agent for whom?"

"For two tradesmen from Seggiano."

"But what could they want with Farfalla?"

"In their hands she would certainly come to a pitiful end. But...." Signor Busisi came back to the table; he seemed quite out of breath.

"But what?"

"I detected something in the face of the Chief," the Signore went on. "At first it was only a flicker, then it burst into flame, bright as the morning sun. You see, he had been charged to buy Farfalla, but suddenly the truth struck him. He did not want to forward the mare to Seggiano. He wanted to keep her for himself."

Doctor Celli sat on the very edge of his chair. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him what I once told you."

"You mean about life being a puzzle with odd-shaped pieces?"

The old man threw back his head and laughed. "My boy, you have a remarkable memory. And I told him also what sweet frenzy it would be for him in next year's Palio to watch two horses—his own and that of his contrada."

Doctor Celli smiled. In the hands of the Chief, Farfalla would be treated well. She might live to race again. She might even....

Signor Busisi broke into his reverie. "I must tell you," he said, "the Chief's money at present is low, but he is soon expecting payment on an old transaction, and my advice, Celli, is for you to wait until he comes to you, ready to buy. Remember this, my friend, a gift horse seldom is prized."

"I will wait! Gladly! Farfalla meanwhile can rest at my country place, and my tenant farmer will see to her needs." With a deep sigh of relief he stood up and raised his glass in a toast. "May the pieces fit again!"

Already the heaviness was lifted from his heart.