"The Palio," he began, taking a deep breath, "is fierce battle and race all at same time. If I tell you, you must listen. Even if it makes the hairs on your spine to quiver. Even if you do not believe it can be so!"
The fountain place was so still that the drip-drip from the spigot sounded like hammer strokes.
"Anciently," he went on, "in old, old times before anyone remembers, city of Siena was very powerful nation."
Giorgio nodded to himself. This was going to be good. Not a tall tale but a true one.
"Inside her high old walls she is divided like inside this umbrella. Only instead of cloth and ribs, she is divided sharp and clean into districts called contradas."
Giorgio opened his mouth. "Do they have names?"
"Oh, splendid names—mostly for animals. One contrada is the Dragon, another the Panther, the Eagle, the Porcupine, the Wolf, the Owl. Like that," he said, ticking them off on his nimble fingers. "Seventeen they number in all."
The pig came back, stole a piece of apple from a child's fingers, and scampered away again. But the child did not even whimper. There was just the Umbrella Man, his eyes hypnotic, his voice carrying his audience along, farther and farther from Monticello.
"In Middle Ages, each contrada was great military company of knights in armor, and each had beautiful flag with emblem in gold. And they fought blood wars."
Suddenly the Umbrella Man's face beaded in sweat. His skin paled.