"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."