Siena Summer

by Siena Summer (retail) (epub)

  ‘Through the renovation. Giovanni came to me for some advice when he first acquired the place and we’ve been friends ever since. His wife Lucia is a delightful woman, and a wonderful hostess. I’m sure you’ll love her. And the house really is super. There’s a painted ceiling in one of the upstairs rooms that’s truly splendid.’

  ‘It’s awfully kind of them to have us. I hope we won’t put them out too much.’

  Kit laughed. ‘If I know the Martellis,’ he said, ‘being “put out” won’t enter into it. They’re the most charming and hospitable people I’ve ever come across. They love to entertain, and they love to entertain in style. I think you’ll find that we’re in for a treat.’

  *

  The Martellis were, indeed, exactly as Kit had described them. They were a handsome couple, he tall and heavily built, a picturesque trace of silver in his thick black hair and neatly clipped moustache, she a pretty, plump little woman with fine black eyes and a becoming dimple when she smiled, which was often. Both spoke excellent if heavily accented English. Their delight in seeing Kit was unfeigned and obvious, and was matched by their pleasure in greeting and welcoming the rest of the party. An especial fuss was made of Peter; as in most Italian homes, a child would always be petted and indulged here. Wine was produced and small, sweet cakes, and cool lemonade for Peter. Their bags were whisked away from them by a smiling servant girl. Solicitous enquiries were made about Isobel. Much was made of the fact that Poppy had journeyed alone from England, Lucia happily confessing, amidst laughter, that she would not even dream of going shopping on her own, let alone attempt to cross a continent. The house, five storeys high, the first three of which had now been completely and tastefully renovated, was as handsome as its owners. On the second floor a huge and beautifully appointed drawing-room ran the width of the house; it was this room that possessed the tall, elegant windows that Kit had pointed out, which opened on to a wide balcony overlooking the Piazza del Campo and the Palazzo Pubblico.

  ‘As you see,’ Giovanni Martelli said, resting powerful hands on the stone balustrade, ‘we will have a splendid view of proceedings, both tomorrow morning and for the Palio itself; you will, of course, be our guests for the race.’

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ Poppy’s eyes were shining with excitement. ‘It’s so very kind of you, Signor Martelli.’

  ‘Giovanni, my dear, Giovanni! We have no ceremony here. Kit, it is a long time since you were last here. I’d like to show you the ceiling upstairs. The restoration is coming on very well. Then Maria will show you to your rooms – I’m sure you’d like to rest a little after your journey. We will eat early today, of course, for we must be up before dawn tomorrow.’ He turned and led the way across the polished floor to the door. ‘We have other guests coming to breakfast and to watch the draw. We will be a jolly party, I think.’

  They all trooped after him up the wide staircase to the top of the house. The stairs led directly on to a spacious landing, empty and uncarpeted, from which opened a single great door, the impressiveness of which was a little marred by peeling paint and rusted hinges. Giovanni pushed it open.

  ‘Golly!’ said Peter, and ‘Gracious!’ Poppy said in the same breath.

  The room into which they stepped was of ballroom proportions – it must, Poppy guessed, take up almost the whole of the top storey of the house. The walls were panelled and painted, as was the ceiling. The room was empty but for scaffolding and planks, the vast wooden floor big as a skating rink. The same tall windows that graced the drawing-room downstairs had been used to even better effect here, since they were set into two walls instead of one, the one side overlooking the square and the other, due to the towering height of the house, looking out over a charming jumble of terracotta roofs and chimneys to a glimpse of the great black and white edifice of the Cathedral. Outside the windows were narrow ornamental balconies of wood and intricately wrought iron. The paintings around the wall were of the city, an enchanting panorama of medieval Siena and its citizens at work and at play. Even stained and dirty as they were, for as yet no attempt had been made to clean them, their quality and charm were immediately obvious. The ceiling was the sky above them, and even only partially restored it was a delight. Beginning in the angle of the corner between the two rows of windows was morning, pale, cool and lovely, the gentle flush of a summer’s sunrise glowing beyond the hills that ringed the city. The centre of the ceiling, where the space was widest, was broad, sunny day, which then faded into the corner where they were standing to evening and the dark of night, with a pale, sickle moon. And from those skies peered cherubs and satyrs, winged angels with open record-books and quills in their long, pale fingers and devils who watched with knowing eyes and gleefully brandished their fiery tridents, whilst beneath them, untroubled, the people of Siena went about their business and the business of the city in tranquil ignorance of the watchers above.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ Michel said, his voice very quiet, yet still echoing in the empty stillness of the great room.

  Kit walked forward, head tilted to look at the ceiling. ‘They’re making a great job of it.’

  ‘But slow.’ Giovanni joined him.

  Kit laughed a little. ‘And expensive.’

  ‘Very.’ There was feeling in the word.

  ‘It’s as big as the aeroplane hangars at Biggin Hill!’ Peter said, exaggerating only a little; and from one moment to the next, as Poppy had observed was his habit, he turned from a grave little adult to the harum-scarum that she suspected a ten-year-old boy should be, spreading his arms like wings as he ducked and dived about the room making aeroplane noises.

  Kit turned, opened his mouth. Giovanni stopped him with a raised hand and an indulgent smile. ‘Leave him. He’s doing no harm.’

  Poppy had wandered to one of the windows, looking out across the roofs. She sensed Michel’s presence behind her and smiled as he stepped close, his breath warm on her ear. ‘What do you think the angels are writing about us?’

  She leaned to him a little. ‘What makes you think we’re the angels’ business?’ she asked, and laughed a little. ‘Personally, I rather fancy the little devils.’

  The aeroplane had come to rest beside them. ‘I say! Shame we can’t watch the race from up here. It’d be much more exciting.’ Peter reached to the handle and turned it. The tall window swung open.

  ‘No!’ Giovanni Martelli’s voice was sharp, almost a shout. Peter jumped and looked round. The big man hurried across the room, hands spread before him in apology. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to startle you, little one. But this balcony, it is—’ in his agitation he slipped into his own language ‘—molto pericoloso – very dangerous. The wood is rotten. A finger would go through it. Much work must be done before it is safe. These doors are supposed to be locked at all times. The workmen must have opened them yesterday in the heat of the day, and forgotten to close them properly. There.’ He had closed the window and turned a small wrought-iron key in the lock. ‘Now, my little aeroplano, would you care for another glass of Lucia’s splendid lemonade before you rest?’

  *

  Later in the day they ate, with the sounds of the square and the city drifting through the open windows of the dining-room. The meal was delicious; Lucia prided herself upon her kitchen and oversaw every dish. The courgettes for the soup must be freshly picked, the chicken chosen live from the market, plump and young, the meringues frothy and crisp and light as air. Much as she loved the peace and quiet, the informality, of the Tenuta, Poppy found herself thoroughly enjoying the urbanity of her surroundings and of her hosts.

  Neither Lucia nor Giovanni were native Sienese – both hailed from Rome and had settled here from simple love of the place. Childless, and blessed with inherited wealth, they had reserved their affection for each other and their energy for this house in the city they both adored. They were in a sense more Sienese than the Sienese, and had learned everything there was to learn about the place’s intricate history and tradition. The talk, of course, was
all of the Palio: of the Contrade, of the savage rivalries, the equally fierce friendships, and of the horses – the barberi Giovanni called them – all locally bred, all coached and cossetted the year round, trained for the honour of running in the races that were the climax of the city’s year. The track around the Piazza was discussed and dissected; the danger of the San Martino and the Casato bends, the perils of loose horses running wild in such a confined area, the even greater danger presented to the riders by the fact that once the race had started no holds were barred. The whips that the jockeys carried could – and would – be used on rival horses and riders as well as on their own mounts, and far more viciously. Indeed, just the year before, a fight had broken out on the starting line before the signal to start the race had even been given.

  ‘It all sounds a bit dangerous to me,’ Poppy said.

  They had moved out on to the balcony and were looking down into the great square, that was becoming more and more packed with people.

  ‘It’s no place for faint hearts, that’s for sure.’ Giovanni smiled down at her. ‘That’s why the jockeys are so admired. You have to be a very brave young man to ride in the Palio. Tomorrow you will have at least a taste of the racing, for before the tratta there are trials to choose the final ten horses, the ones that will take part in the Palio. Then, between now and the real race, more trials will be held, to get horses and jockeys used to the track. But these are much less dangerous affairs. If a horse or a jockey is injured in the trials they cannot be replaced, and the Contrada cannot run in the Palio, so you may be sure that they are careful. And the nerbo – the whip – is not presented to the rider until just before the start of the actual race. Now—’ he turned back into the room ‘—may I offer you coffee?’

  Poppy cast a quick, wistful glance at the excitement below before following him. ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

  Michel, seeing the look, reached for her hand. ‘Do you really want coffee? Or would you like to come for a stroll with me?’

  Her face lit. ‘Could we?’

  Michel turned to Giovanni Martelli. ‘I’m sorry – would you mind?’

  Their host was beaming. ‘Of course not. Of course not! Off you go at once. You’ll find there is much to see.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Peter bounced off his chair like a rubber ball.

  Michel and Poppy exchanged rueful glances. But before either could speak, Kit laid a playful but determined hand on the shining russet head. ‘No,’ he said, winking at Poppy. ‘Not this time, my lad. There’s going to be plenty of excitement for you tomorrow, and we’ll be up well before dawn. If you wear yourself out today you’ll be fit for nothing in the morning.’

  ‘O-oh.’ Peter’s brows drew together.

  ‘No,’ Kit said again, very firmly, and the boy subsided, though his face was still rebellious. ‘Tell you what, though,’ he added, ‘you and I could pop out later and walk the course, so you see what it’s like when you-watch the race. How would that be?’

  ‘That’d be good.’ The boy’s slow, sunny smile broke out as if from behind clouds, and Poppy, unabashedly grateful for the reprieve, thought again how very close these two had become. Indeed, anyone seeing them together could well be forgiven for taking them as father and son. Not for the first time she found herself wondering just a little uneasily if Eloise had noticed, and if so, how she felt about it.

  *

  They spent the afternoon and early evening wandering the festive city hand in hand, engrossed as much in each other as in the sights and sounds, the fever of preparation around them. They found themselves a table beside a marble fountain in a tiny square not far from the Cathedral, ordered wine and cakes, clasped hands across the table and talked, as those balanced on the threshold of love always have, of themselves; of where and how and with whom they had lived, of what they liked and what they did not, of what made them laugh, of what made them cry. Even the young waiter who served them, a bright favour on his shoulder, his mind on the drawing of the horses at dawn and impatient for his day of glory as an Ensign in the great procession of the Palio, had to smile at the young foreigners’ self-absorption. Ah, love! Perhaps he too one day would be more interested in a pair of soft brown eyes than in the fierce camaraderie and the dedicated loyalties of the Contrada of the Wave. Perhaps. But he doubted it.

  As Poppy and Michel made their way back to the house, darkness was falling, windows were beginning to glow with light, and the sound of men’s voices lifted in the songs of the Contrade – strange, almost medieval chants – could be heard throughout the city. And still excited voices called, from house to house, from street to street, still every square and every corner had its excited little group discussing, exclaiming, voicing hope or opinion amidst laughter or the occasional sound of argument. As they strolled across the Piazza del Campo Poppy glanced at her companion, caught his eye and smiled shyly. He stopped, turned to her and took both her hands, then gently but very firmly he kissed her, to the noisy and enthusiastic approval of a band of young men who, more than a little unsteady on their feet, were crossing the square. One tousled-haired youth slapped Michel good-naturedly on the shoulder as they passed, and the others yelped and called like an unruly pack of puppies, their voices fading as they reached a narrow alley and ran up the steps and out of the Piazza. Neither Poppy nor Michel even glanced after them. They stood quite still, their hands linked, studying each other in a kind of wonder; and it came to Poppy that whatever might come of this, good or ill, here was a moment that would stay with her for ever. ‘Would you do that again, please?’ she asked, and was surprised to find that this time when his lips touched hers they trembled.

  That night, with the house still and quiet around her, she lay beneath a single sheet in the warm darkness and gathered to herself every look, every touch, every word of that afternoon. In her mind’s eye she recreated Michel’s face with its broad forehead, its large pale eyes and its well-formed mouth that had kissed her, and trembled. She remembered his laughter and his gentle warmth, the feel of his lean body against hers.

  Somewhere, sleepily, the old Poppy stirred; take care! she warned herself, and almost laughed aloud at the silliness of it. If she knew one thing, it was that it was far too late for such caution, good sense though caution might be. Poppy Brookes, what has got into you? she asked herself, settling herself more comfortably, punching the pillow. You’ll be falling down rabbit holes next, you’ll see—

  In that strange half-world between sleeping and waking she found her thoughts had drifted to Kit and to the story he had told her about Peter’s father; found herself not for the first time wondering if perhaps she should tell Michel, despite her promise. It was odd and uncomfortable to have such a secret from him. She’d talk to Kit about it.

  She slept like a child, her hand curled close to her cheek and a small, tranquil smile upon her face.

  In a room a little down the landing Michel stood at his window watching the great globe of the moon as it crept into the sky, hanging like a lantern, its light gilding the roofs, the domes, the spires of a city that was settling in excited whispers to rest. Tomorrow, he thought, would be an experience to remember, as would the race in a few days’ time. But today – today had been different. Today had been theirs – his and Poppy’s. He closed his eyes for a moment; and his smile, had he known it, was as contented as Poppy’s own.

  *

  Breakfast was an informal and-cheerful affair, eaten at first light and attended not just by the English party but by two other families from the city, friends of Lucia and Giovanni. Home-baked bread and the honey-sweet rolls from Calabria called taralli were washed down with hot coffee, whilst out in the Piazza the horses were being led into the courtyard of the Palazzo Pubblico to have their draw number painted upon their flanks before showing their mettle to the watching crowds and the Contrade Captains who would have the final choice of the ten to go into the draw. The Piazza seethed with people, the very air buzzed with excitement. By the time the first trials were
taking place, the whole party was on the balcony, Peter still clutching a large piece of Lucia’s delicious almond tart.

  There were five races, or trials, with six horses in each, all closely watched by those who had the task of selecting the ten they considered to be the most worthy to run in the final glorious race four days later. Poppy found herself shrieking encouragement as loudly as the most partisan of onlookers as the gallant animals ran flat out around the constricted track, manes and tails streaming, sand spraying from their flying hooves. Right from the start the dangerous San Martino corner took its toll; the slightest miscalculation could unseat a jockey, or, worse, bowl horse and rider over together, a perilous projectile of solid horseflesh and flailing hooves. By the time the rope dropped to start the last race, the crowds were delirious with excitement. This time two jockeys were thrown at the San Martino and their loose mounts careered on, uncontrolled, bringing down another horse and rider. When the horses completed their third circuit and crossed the finishing line, the crowds immediately surged across the track to stand amidst a buzz of excitement outside the Palazzo, where stood a low platform draped in bunting.

  ‘What happens now?’ Poppy asked Kit.

  Kit pointed towards the platform. ‘See the two boxes? In one will go the numbers of the horses the Captains have chosen, and in the other the names of the Contrade that are to take part in the Palio itself. Then they’re drawn and matched. Then each Contrada takes its own horse back to the stable prepared for it. For the next four days the horse becomes the property of the Contrada that has drawn it. It’ll be cossetted and coached and pampered like a baby. Ah—’ A line of colourfully dressed trumpeters had lifted their instruments and a fanfare had rung through the square, causing instant silence to fall ‘—here we go.’