But in sleep he could not wear the blinders. His dreams were always of the Palio.
As the first month wore itself out, Signor Ramalli sensed a growing restlessness in the boy. One day he recognized it openly.
"Tomorrow," he said to Giorgio, "is a Sunday. A quick journey to Monticello is the best cure I know for ailments like homesickness. In a day you will come back feeling more content here. Now then, in the morning when I get out my car to take my wife and Anna to the early mass, I will at the same time take you to the station. My wife will prepare for you a little lunch to carry, and I will buy you a ticket, both ways."
He held out his hand. Giorgio put his small calloused one inside the great warmth of the Signore's and felt it close around his with a clasp so strong it made him blink. Giorgio's heart leaped in joy.
CHAPTER IX
The Cart Horse of Casalino
The Sunday train inched its way along toward the Maremma. Instead of Accelerato it should be called the tortoise, Giorgio thought. He paced up and down the aisle. He leaned out the window, waving at peasants working in the fields even on a Sunday. He ate his lunch—thick slices of ham with white bread, and an orange. He took off his jacket and shadowboxed with a fat little boy.