The Chief's wife and daughter greeted Giorgio with politeness and relief. "The supper is ready," the Signora said with a hot-stove smile. "I would not want the chicken to cook a moment longer."
The meal was a feast such as Giorgio had not tasted since his days at the Ramallis'. First there was a piping hot broth of chicken with tiny pearls of dough swimming along the bottom. Then came a beautiful plate of antipasto—black olives, and mushrooms in oil, and little white onions, and small green peppers, and anchovies curved into tight nests, with a caper on each. Giorgio was encouraged to take something of everything. And still he had room for a drumstick and breast of chicken, and a baked tomato stuffed with ground beef.
All of this he sluiced down with a red Chianti wine which he thriftily diluted with water as though he were at home.
The Chief helped himself to the food sparingly, and in silence. He seemed preoccupied, brooding. But Giorgio ate heartily. The Signora beamed at him. "For a small man, as you are," she said, appreciatively, "you have un bel appetito."
Giorgio felt his face flush and his ears redden at the half-and-half compliment.
With the dessert of fruit and cheeses on the table, the wife and daughter disappeared into the kitchen. The silence grew heavy. The Chief pushed back his plate without touching the food. At last the moment for talk had arrived.
But the words did not come. He ran his finger around the inside of his collar and cleared his throat. He got up and stood at the open door, looking out upon the night. He came back and sat down again. Then, gripping the edge of the table, he blurted out, "My boy, the Palio is not going to be as we dreamed it."
Giorgio swallowed whole the apricot in his mouth. It was as though an icy hand had gripped his throat.
"You see, the people want beautiful horses such as Gaudenzia, but the judges, no!"
Giorgio's voice sank back so deep inside him it was scarcely audible. "But why?"