by April Smith
“Did you hear?” he babbles. “I won the lotto!” “Yes, you were lucky. Do you know what happened to you?” He shrugs. “Boh.”
“You were jumped outside of Muriel Barrett’s apartment.” He tries to process this.
“And then you were taken to a tunnel off Via Salicotto.” “The police said that, but I don’t remember.” “What do you remember?” He gestures toward a glass of water, and when I give it to him, he drinks with gusto through a straw.
“Did you see who attacked you, Giovanni?” He lies back on the pillows and looks up at the fluorescent lights. Just drinking has exhausted him.
“Never mind. You rest.” He is quiet, and I think he might doze, but then a tear rolls down his cheek. I stroke his hair, thick and unwashed.
“What’s the matter, baby?” He tries to raise the broken arm, but he is too weak to lift the cast. “I kick their ass.” Tears are streaming now, but his eyes remain uplifted, as if by looking elsewhere he will not have to see something awful.
“My father all the time tells me, ‘If they hit you, you kick them in the nuts.’ No. You kick them first in the nuts — first.” “You’re a fighter like your dad.” “He comes into my room.” “Who? Your dad?” Giovanni rolls his head to one side, slowly. The tears hit the pillow.
I prompt him. “Who came in here? Was it a strange old guy without any hands?” His eyes go empty. I find a tissue and wipe his cheek. He is fading fast as winter light.
“Why did you go to Muriel Barrett’s apartment?” He does not respond.
“You drove outside the walls to see Muriel. You went for a reason.” “Non lo so,” he whispers. “The police already ask.” With the police guard outside the open door there is no privacy, so I sit on the bed and lean in close.
“Giovanni, listen. I have no agenda except to protect you and your family. You’ve been targeted by the mafias, and these people do not fool around. What’s going on? Are you involved with drugs? Stolen property? You can tell me. I have friends who will help.” “Sbagliato,” he answers heavily. An involuntary grin crosses his face — that sign of deception — but it probably doesn’t count if you’re high on Percodan. “Wrong. You are fucked up.” “Who’s fucked up?” I ask gently. “Who’s in the hospital because he was jumped by professional hit men?” “I don’t sell drugs.” His head relaxes back and he sighs. “Sono di merda.”
He falls silent.
I now have custody of Giovanni’s mailbox car, which gets me to the Walkabout Pub. Chris, the dour Englishman behind the bar, is wearing rainbow-colored suspenders over a black shirt, adding a note of frivolity to the dull red atmosphere.
“Enjoying the Palio?” I ask.
“The party has barely begun,” he replies ambiguously, putting a Foster’s under my nose.
“What happens tomorrow?” “I don’t keep up with it,” he says. “I just pour the beer.” “Why do you live here?” “I enjoy the expat community.” “And the Italian girls?” He blows through his lips. “I stay away from the Italian girls. I value my equipment, if you take my meaning.” Muriel comes in through the door, but instead of her usual oversized pop art tunics and wild tights, bare feet in splintering old Dr. Scholl’s, she is wearing city clothes: a long brown skirt and a beige crocheted jacket.
“You look nice,” I say. “Where are you off to?” She is edgy, and does not sit down. “London.” “For how long?” “I don’t know. Sheila’s taken ill again. The tumor’s back. They want her to do another round of chemo. We’ll just have to go from there.” “When are you leaving?” “The taxi is outside.” “Anything we can do?” “No worries. Madame Defarge”—meaning her demented landlady—“has everything in hand.” Chris puts up a rum e pera. “One for the road?” Muriel turns away, as if the sight makes her queasy. She looks as flushed and panicky as she did in the hospital corridor, when we learned Giovanni had gone into cardiac arrest.
“No, I couldn’t. I’m just too upset.” “Sorry, love,” he says, disappearing the drinks. “What’s that you’ve got? Going-away present for me?” She’s clutching a rectangular package about seventeen by twelve inches, tightly wrapped with brown paper and twine.
“No, dear; it’s a painting for Giovanni, to wish him a speedy recovery.” “Very cool. I’ll give it to him.” I take the package.
She seems rattled. “I was going to leave it with Chris.” “No worries,” I assure her.
“Well, all right. Give him my best. Ciao, everyone,” she calls, and turns away, wiggling her fingers good-bye over her shoulder as she pulls the door open. We watch the taxi maneuver down the street.
“Did she say when she’s coming back?” I wonder.
“In the meantime,” Chris says, “let’s not allow those shots to go to waste.” Chris places the untouched rum e pera back on the bar. He does one and I do the other. We do a couple more, until the alcohol makes the world a cheerful place, with pleasant surprises around each corner. By the time I climb a bit unsteadily out of the mailbox car in the abbey courtyard, faithfully clutching the painting, I’m not at all concerned that it is meant for Giovanni. Like a greedy child, I can’t wait to see what’s inside.
Veering into the kitchen, I turn on the lights and locate a knife. In a wink I have popped the twine and ripped through the brown paper and protective layers of newsprint. What the hell; I’ll fix it later. I let the wrapping drop and lift out the painting. Another image of high-flying clouds, nicely done. Admiring the delicate wash of blues, I notice that a puff of white powder has accumulated on my fingers. I flip the canvas over and slice off the rest of the backing. Hidden inside the painting is a plastic bag, spilling cocaine where it was pierced by the blade.
FIFTEEN
Palio, Day 2—SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 7:00 A.M. To ensure the highest level of security, a private ambulance and an unmarked police car leave the hospital early in the morning and arrive at the abbey before the city wakes. The former chapel on the ground floor has been emptied of white sofas and turned into a hospital room, where two nurses are at the ready alongside state-of-the-art medical equipment. Officers will be posted there around the clock. Giovanni, strength and youth on his side, is expected to make a good recovery. The optimism floating through the household like an errant butterfly matches the celebratory mood of the second day of Palio, when traditionally the banner is joyfully carried through the streets, to be blessed by all in church.
And here I come, with my plastic grocery bag of cocaine.
Having settled Giovanni and given instructions to the nurses, my sister is in the garden, cutting flowers.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “We are leaving for church.” She looks me up and down — surprised that I have agreed to wear one of the Ungaro dresses she offered, gray silk chiffon gathered at the waist, with transparent sleeves that button at the cuff.
“Fantastico!” she cries approvingly. “How do you like it?” “It feels like nothing on.”
She laughs. “That’s what you pay for. A lot of money to walk around naked.” Cecilia is wearing another shimmery million-dollar Oca-green suit, low-cut, with multiple strands of solid gold necklaces. She has positioned her feet carefully on a paving stone so as not to ruin her hot-pink heels. Picking up a basket of roses, she pivots carefully on the stone.
“These are for Giovanni, because he must miss the blessing of the Palio. What do you have there?” she asks of the canvas in my hand.
“It’s a painting by the English lady, Muriel Barrett. She left it for Giovanni on her way out of town.” “She is going for good?” Cecilia asks, in a tone that suggests she wouldn’t mind.
“Unclear. Her partner in London is sick.” Cecilia examines the work. “Che bella,” she says admiringly. “But why is the back ripped off?” “I wasn’t looking for it, but this is what I found.” I open the grocery bag. Inside is the broken sack of cocaine.
“It was hidden inside the painting. This woman is passing drugs to your son.” Cecilia twists her lips together. “What do you mean? Passing drug
s?” “They’re both dealing, or she’s selling and Giovanni is using. Either way, the load was meant for him.” “I find that hard to believe.” “She left it for Giovanni at the Walkabout Pub. I was there.” Cecilia stares off, trying to get her bearings. The morning sun has grown exponentially hotter; if we stay out here a moment longer, the two of us in our phantasmagorical dresses will air-dry like beef jerky.
“I’d like to talk to him,” I say.
“He’s just had a sedative.”
“When we get back?”
Cecilia nods, striding ahead. “Without a doubt.” “And you’ll tell me about your husband’s business?” I follow her into the cool of the kitchen, where she angrily fills a bucket and throws the roses in. Her rage is about to explode — at me, at everything.
“Don’t worry, Ana; I am not going through this again.” “Going through what?”
Nicosa comes into the kitchen. He’s wearing a finely sculpted dark suit, his hair still wet and tousled from the shower.
“Ready, ladies?”
Cecilia thrusts the plastic bag at her husband. “Cocaine.” He peers inside with the revulsion of a man looking at a dead animal.
“Giovanni is selling drugs. That Englishwoman hooked him back into it.” “Tenerlo! Fermata! Di chi parli?”
Cecilia explains, half-shouting in high-pitched Italian that the drugs were found in a painting given to their son by Muriel Barrett.
“Where is Muriel Barrett now?” Nicosa demands. “I will break her neck.” “Where is she, Ana?”
“Somewhere in the U.K.”
“But the FBI can find her and have her arrested, right?” Cecilia says.
I’m stammering. “I don’t know—” Does she realize what she’s saying?
Cecilia cries, “I want her to pay!” “We can call the authorities in London,” I say mollifyingly.
Cecilia’s gold-laden chest is heaving with emotion. I am watching the epitome of the Italian ruling class becoming undone.
“I insist that you arrest her!” she says.
“Arrest her?” Nicosa says.
“Yes, Ana can arrest her! Ana works for the FBI.” Nicosa regards me with astonishment. “You are with the FBI?” There it goes. My cover. The case. One thing I learned in undercover school: it’s a game that changes by the minute.
Make an adjustment.
I affect neutrality, as if there is nothing to hide. “It’s true.” Nicosa rubs his temples. “I think I am still sleeping. I have not woken up to the new world order. Explain this to me.” “When we hired the investigator to find my sister, he found her in the Los Angeles FBI,” Cecilia says.
“It doesn’t mean anything over here. I can’t arrest Muriel Barrett,” I interject quickly. “But I can call Scotland Yard.” “Why did I never know this?” Cecilia says, “I didn’t think you would like my sister if you knew.” We exchange looks. She knows that she has blown it, and she doesn’t care.
Nicosa shakes his head and laughs. “I am spinning!” “Never mind about Muriel Barrett,” I say. “The point is that whatever your son is into has to be stopped. Now.” He turns on me. “You have no place in this.” “I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t see how that is possible,” he says dismissively.
“You didn’t object when I showed up at the pool and saved you from a possible beating.” “What are you talking about?” Cecilia wants to know.
“When I first got here. Now I understand why the contrada members who confronted you at the pool were upset. They did not want Giovanni to be alfiere because he was selling drugs to their kids. Does that make sense to you?” Nicosa coolly lights a cigarette.
“You didn’t understand the Italian.” “Translate for me.”
Nicosa shrugs and smoothes his wet hair. “They’re jealous. Who is alfiere is an important thing.” “Can we stop playing games?” Cecilia breaks allegiance with her husband by making a confession: “Giovanni did at one time have a problem with marijuana.” “Welcome to the world,” I say. “But now he’s involved with hard drugs.” “Not at all,” scoffs Nicosa. “He was smoking a little weed, but not anymore.” “Kids lie, I am sorry to say.” “Tests don’t lie,” Cecilia says. “We test his urine randomly, here at home. He made a contract with his drug counselor, and he’s kept it. He’s been through a program, Ana. He’s clean.” I hold up the bag. “What about this?” Cecilia slips on her sunglasses. “I don’t know about that. We will ask Giovanni when we get back from church.” “I mean, this is evidence. Do you have a safe?” Nicosa opens the bottom cabinet where the prosciutto is stored. “Put it here,” he says.
I believe he is 100 percent serious.
Instead, we lock the bag of cocaine in the trunk of Cecilia’s car, and after checking again on the sleeping boy, and the policeman reading a newspaper outside his door, the three of us jam into the Ferrari.
“I’m glad you will see the blessing,” my sister says stiffly. “The ceremony is very beautiful.” Winding down the mountain in the open car, Nicosa in glamorous Prada sunglasses and Cecilia and I with Oca scarves tied over our hair, we look like we should be in an Audrey Hepburn movie, but the tension is far from romantic.
“So now we have a spy in our house,” Nicosa says.
“I’m sorry if it looks that way.” “Things went bad the minute you arrived,” he decides, and then, essentially, invites me to leave. “Vatene!” is the command.
Cecilia snaps, “Non parlare a mia sorella in quella maniera.” Don’t talk to my sister that way!
“I’m curious about tua sorella.” Nicosa’s voice becomes louder as he goes on. “Is she here to report on us? Does she carry some kind of list in her pocket, and when she sees someone America doesn’t like she calls the FBI? Because I don’t understand. Explain to me.” He catches my eyes in the mirror. “What are you doing here?” “I’m trying to protect your family from people like the mafia boss I saw in the hospital. It did not start out that way. I was invited by my sister,” I say, and the taste of the lie is sour on my tongue.
“How do you know this man you saw in the hospital?” Nicosa asks.
Cecilia cuts in quickly, “I never spoke his name.” “He had a bodyguard, and he looked like a crook,” I say, covering. “I’m trained to know.” Nicosa bears down on the accelerator.
“He looks at you crooked so you make a terrible and false accusation?” The anxiety in the car ratchets up with the rpms. The curves come and vanish. We are rigid in our seats.
“Can you tell me what this man was doing there?” I say.
“I am delighted to tell you. He is a friend of the family,” Nicosa replies. “He came to express his concern for our boy.” I imagine Cecilia rolling her eyes behind the dark glasses.
“How do you know him? What does he do?” “He is a businessman,” Nicosa says.
“Fine.” I’m getting used to the Italian game of deny-what-we-both-know. “The important one here is Giovanni. As I told Cecilia, your son is in danger.” “Leave it to us to protect our son.” He hits the gas and we suck in the silence until we screech up outside the walls and stride without speaking to Oca headquarters, where the procession to bless the banner is about to begin. Nicosa gets out, lobbing something in Italian that makes Cecilia flinch, and joins a group of men. She and I are left standing in the sun, filled with malevolent adrenaline.
“What did Nicoli say just now?” “You don’t want to know.”
“Did he threaten you?”
She doesn’t answer. I try to read her face, but all I get are fireballs reflected in the dark glasses. She glimmers and glitters with evasion. What is she still protecting?
“Don’t worry about us,” she says finally. “We will be okay. It is like the civil war in my country. You get used to it. You learn how to survive.” The tamburino drowns her out, banging a commanding pulse. People are chanting a poem about it—“In vivo porta il morto / E ’l morto suona” —how the living drum brings the dead to life. The cycle of Palio goes on. Lines of men and wo
men are forming. And now, this is it. We truly are going to war, marching with an animated throng of Oca contradaioli through the sinuous streets, behind the drummer and alfieri carrying the flags of the crowned white Noble Goose. The boy substituting for Giovanni must have been practicing all year as well, because the two flag bearers are perfectly matched.
The soldiers at arms are dressed in pewter helmets and shoulder armor, leather tunics with mail skirts, carrying spears. The costumes are impeccable, down to the embroidery and finely turned swords. There are more men in tights than a Russian ballet, and it’s no joke. Their faces are dead serious — no smirking or waving back at tourists, no awareness of them — as if the authentic Sienese among us have truly been transported back to the fifteenth century.
“Come with me and walk with Oca,” says Cecilia.
“Am I allowed to?”
“You’re wearing the colors; it is fine.” We are part of a long procession that includes all seventeen contrade. I feel like an imposter, walking with the Oca women — young girls, arm in arm, singing boastful victory songs, then mamas and nonnas in sleeveless dresses with pocketbooks hanging over their flaccid wrists. Ahead of us are teenage boys in baggy shorts, and men in business suits, including Nicosa and Sofri, way up front.
“What happens if you marry someone from a different contrada?” “You will not see him. During Palio he will go back to his parents’ house.” “Is that true?”
“Wives and husbands often separate for the week of the feast.” Cecilia gives a rueful laugh, still smarting from Nicosa’s parting shot. “Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?” she says.
It is disorienting to be inside a parade instead of protecting it, to be the focus of dazed tourists backed into doorways, nobody understanding what in hell is going on. It’s the folks in modern dress who look out of place, because the contrada procession dominates the streets, sweeping forward with the force of absolute commitment that carries the tall, elongated Palio banner through history to the church. A new one is commissioned each year from a local artist. This one is a bright abstract of the virgin, with multicolored garlands trailing like the tails of fanciful horses.