by Fay Henson
‘That must be Vico then,’ I said, ‘and the other?’
‘L. Hoxha, however you pronounce it, which I don’t think is,’ he said, ‘because I’m sure that the Italians don’t pronounce the letter H and I’m positive there’s no Italian surnames beginning with H either.
‘Oh.’
That had to be Lula then, whichever country she came from.
To our surprise we heard voices coming from inside the apartment; I didn’t think anyone was at home it’d been so quiet. The voices, one I thought was that of Lula and the other belonging to Vico were increasing in volume and then they were shouting at each other and with what sounded like plenty of cupboard or door slamming going on.
‘They’re arguing in Italian,’ Joe said.
We stayed at the bottom of the stairs with our bikes poised ready for a quick getaway if necessary. Joe was listening whilst pretending to check his bike tyres.
‘I’ll tell you what’s being said when we’re away from the area.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘Could be,’ he said, ‘watch out, someone’s coming.’
It was too late, Vico hurtled down the stairs and swung the bottom door wide open revealing us directly outside. I was glued to the spot and unable to turn away in time. He glared at me and then to Joe and back to me again where he lingered a long time. He asked me a question but I couldn’t respond in Italian except stutter in English. Joe said something in Italian, but I thought that his Bristolian accent was what must’ve finally gave him away and Vico put two and two together.
He went right up close to Joe who almost fell backwards over his bike. A lot of words were exchanged and I could sense that poor Joe was having trouble trawling up the words he needed in a hostile situation. He’d studied the language but I bet he hadn’t thought he’d needed to study how to stand up for himself in Italian. My heart was pounding; I was terrified.
What came next made me cry. That monster Vico swung a punch with his right fist and caught Joe’s left eye, sending him out into the street where he managed to stay upright but was bending over holding his face. I was absolutely stunned.
Vico glared at me then legged it down the road to the parking area and got into a car. And who should come down the stairs, but Lula. She’d been crying too. The three of us stood outside in the street and watched Vico rev the car’s engine and pull away.
‘It’s all my fault,’ I cried, ‘I shouldn’t have said anything about staying with them, and if I hadn’t had accepted the lift with them in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Actually, if I hadn’t even come to Italy.’
‘I’m OK,’ he said, ‘calm down Caylin, it’s going to be OK.’
Both our bikes were lying on the ground and I was hugging Joe when I heard footsteps rushing down the stairs again making us look towards the door. To my surprise it was Lula with a bag of frozen peas, probably the same I’d used on my ankle. She held the bag out to Joe.
‘Grazie, thanks,’ he said and took the peas and held them against his left eye. She made a gesture for us to go up into the apartment, but we both shook our heads and thanked her again.
‘Sorry,’ she said. And she did look sorry.
I felt terribly confused and wanted to know what the arguing was about and what had been said between Vico and Joe, but I had to try to be patient; Joe was hurting.
We picked our bikes up off the ground and pushed them up the street in silence. Easy for me; Joe had to keep the peas on his eye with one hand which I thought was making him more agitated, if that was possible of course. For a split moment I thought Joe had gone all weird when he started laughing really loudly, quite scarily. He hadn’t said much since he was landed one by Vico, but I knew he was dead angry. I wanted to say something but I was worrying about his reaction.
‘Joe, I want to stop a moment,’ I said, ‘can we talk please.’
He didn’t reply but he stopped still.
‘What were they arguing about?’
Joe manoeuvred the wet bag of peas into a different position and changed hands. I patiently waited.
‘I could hear that her spoken Italian wasn’t as fluent as his,’ he said, ‘then I sort of understood that she has a brother somewhere who I gather Vico doesn’t like much, called him a scrounger or something like that and of course she was defending him.’
‘But what was he saying to you when he found us outside his door?’
‘He said he’s had money go missing from his apartment around the time you stayed and apparently it’s still happening, and now that he’s recognised you, and we were outside his apartment, you can imagine what he’s assuming. He’s raging and confused as I’d found out.’
‘Well that makes most of us then,’ I said.
Joe kicked a wall in frustration.
‘Do you know how it feels when you can’t state your case quick enough in another language?’
I didn’t, but I could certainly imagine.
I put my bike against the wall and went over to cuddle him tightly. I thought that’d be better than my pathetic words. He felt really tense.
‘And so what do you think of me now, you know, shouldn’t Taurus the bull be tough?’ He kissed my head.
‘You’re a good person Joe,’ I said, ‘and even though that Vico deserves a great big thump, he’ll more than likely get it sooner or later. Anyway, he didn’t exactly stand there waiting for you to smack him one, if you remember, he hot-footed it quick to his car, remember? He obviously wasn’t going to wait to find out what your bull capabilities were.’
Joe relaxed his muscles.
‘I’m really proud of you for not chasing him down the road like a raging bull,’ I said, ‘he’s the one who look’s a right what’s it.’
I hated seeing fights and whenever there was something brewing between guys at a pub, even at the bowling centre, when they started pushing each other around I’d drag whoever I was with away to another area. I remember Dad telling me that he’d seen some terrible fights between the soldiers. I just hated that sort of thing.
‘Now let me see that eye of yours.’ I said.
‘Wow!’
15
One Mojito too many
After the disaster yesterday, neither of us felt like going out and eating pasta; I was still tired from the infection and Joe’s eye had finally closed over with the swelling. In the end we had to discard the soggy bag of defrosted peas. We’d taken our bikes back and picked up some bread with fillings and collected some stuff from my room. Oh, and we bought an icepack from a pharmacy and a piece of white gauze.
So there I was lying in his bed this time, and without any pressure to have sex, and waking up to the sun this morning which never seemed to fail, sending little golden lines through the shutter’s slits onto the white walls. Joe was sleeping so I reached for my phone to check my messages where I could see there were two waiting.
Cor Cay, that’s my girl J but what’s wrong with the guy? You’re gonna have to take the lead sooner or later b4 your time runs out, Zoeeeee xx How’s the tattoo?
Hum, I wasn’t sure about that.
Hi Cay, seems you found yourself a good catch if you ask me, cor, can’t be many guys around who’ll cuddle up with you without expecting something in payment, Em x PS. Hope you’re feeling better and that mess on your wrist is improving.
I thought I’d time to send quick replies.
Dear Zoe, the tattoo’s still gruesome L but luckily I’m starting to feel better thanks to the drugs J. Joe’s not putting any pressure on and as I’m in no rush it’s fine by me. Hey guess what? He’s sporting a black eye which he didn’t deserve L, all fun and games here. Got any gossip? Catch you soon, Cay xx
Dear Em, Yeah I think so too, even though he’s got a black eye L, talk about him being in the wrong place at the wrong time! Feeling bit better thanks but the mess is still disgusting. An
yway, the sun’s shining as usual so it’s boring, I miss the Bristol clouds, ha only joking J , any news for me? Cay xx
I put my phone down and turned onto my left side to look at Joe and his poor puffy and bruised eye. A thought occurred to me; I wondered if he had in actual fact, secretly wished it had been his nose that took the impact of that Vico’s right fist. And if that’d been the case, maybe he’d hoped he’d get a nose job back in the UK under some kind of insurance scheme or something. He made me jump out of my skin.
‘What are you staring at?’ he asked, squinting at me through his one good eye, ‘stupid question I guess.’ There, he answered himself. He sounded very fed-up.
‘Have you noticed on our bedroom walls and even in some shops, there’s often a crucifix with Jesus?’ I asked.
‘Sure I have, you know they’re very religious here,’ he said, ‘there’s also a bible in the drawer over there.’
‘Hum, it’s not my thing though,’ I said.
Ah yes, I remember one in the hotel of which I’d torn out a piece of paper to write a note to Mum and Dad.
‘Even the Palio horse race has a religious connection where I believe every church in Siena has its own club. Even the horses go inside their club’s church to receive a blessing before the race.’
‘Strange,’ I said, ‘isn’t it the proper race today?’
‘Yup early this evening I think,’ he said, ‘and before then, I think there’ll be a lot of parades too. We ought to go, it’ll be our last opportunity seeing as we hadn’t made any of the horse race trials.’
‘Let’s go for it.’
Joe’s bed and breakfast, without the breakfast, was a few streets away from mine, and it was just the same outside with groups of youngsters running along wearing their silky coloured scarves. Siena never seemed to stop partying. Today though, the atmosphere felt much stronger than the previous three days; this time there were separate groups of women and men chanting and blowing whistles. It was quite exciting.
‘We’ll have to get to the Piazza del Campo early this afternoon so we can get into the centre part again,’ he said, ‘think you’ll be OK this time?’ I could tell that Joe was concerned rather than teasing me.
‘Of course, I have my guardian angel with me.’ That comment brought a smile to his face.
We hurried ourselves getting ready to go out, ending with the final touches, to Joe’s eye. He held the white gauze square over his eye whilst I stuck it with some tape. At least it looked like he’d had something done to his eye in hospital instead of having been walloped. We stood together in front of a mirror.
‘Cor, look at us,’ he said.
‘Speak for yourself,’ I replied, thumping his arm.
We looked a sorry sight, but didn’t we laugh.
It seemed like the whole world had descended onto those narrow streets and all heading in one direction, and for one thing only, the Palio. Children were perched on parent’s shoulders which was probably the safest place for them at that time with all that pushing and shoving.
Quite often the local people wearing the silky coloured scarves didn’t worry if they’d bumped into us or made us separate. I was lucky though, because it was easy to spot Joe partly for his height but mainly today it was the white gauze over his eye which vividly stood out.
We were subjected to more pushing and shoving until we were obliged to step quickly into a boutique doorway sensing something was coming by. It was an immense group of people following a man on foot who was struggling to keep a tall and lean horse under control through the crowds. The men, women and children were running in front, at the side and behind that poor horse which was tugging its head against the reign; its eyes very scared and wild.
I imagined that the same thing was happening along all the streets leading from each club to the Piazza del Campo and each horse drenched in sweat and fear.
We continued to walk along again until we came across a small supermarket where in its window, was a giant piece of juicy roast pork being sliced and put into pieces of bread.
‘Got to get some of that,’ Joe said.
‘I’ll second that.’
The lady behind the delicatessen counter smiled at me and chatted sympathetically with Joe whilst she sliced the thick pieces and laying them onto the bread. I wondered if she felt sorry for him having had a gauze over his eye and I hoped too, that she’d give us extra pork because the meat looked super scrummy with its coating of rosemary and salt seasoning.
We stepped back outside into the Palio mayhem clutching our rolls and cold bottles of peach flavoured iced tea. Then almost immediately, we were forced again to get into a shop doorway, this time a classy-looking shoe shop with its strong smell of leather, to wait for an approaching emergency vehicle to pass. Its strange Italian siren was deafening.
The ambulance driver was frantically beeping the horn at the people who were dawdling along in front of it as if nothing really mattered. I solemnly wondered where the ambulance could have been heading; was it a child or was it an old person who needed their life saved and I too wanted to shout at those dawdlers to get out of the way. It gave me the shivers; life or death.
Well, we survived the Palio, and that wasn’t an understatement by the way. Finally after having dodged horses, annoying pushchairs, dawdlers and groups of chanters, we arrived at the Piazza del Campo where we could see the centre was already packed with spectators and we just about got in before the police closed the entrances, meaning nobody else could enter and nobody could get out until the race had finished. Joe found out from a person next to him that there weren’t any loos, so you had to hold on or pee yourself. Perhaps it was pee I walked through on our way back to the exit. How gross.
I thought that the only other time I’d been to an event with that many people was when I saw David Guetta but that had a different atmosphere. There, everyone was chanting for him and his guests, but at the Palio it was full of serious rivalry between the clubs. I reckoned that some of the men, even women were asking for trouble with the way they were taunting others.
We’d struggled to squeeze past people to get as close to the barriers as we could but of course, most of the people wanted those places too. Anyway, even with loads of others in front of us, luckily we could still see bits of what was happening. It was an amazing event with medieval costume parades and flag waving and drum beating and trumpeters even though we hadn’t had a clue of what the significance was for some of the rituals. But for me, the best bit was when the Carabinieri police on horses charged around the track at full pelt with their swords out, just like they were going into battle.
As for the race itself, it shocked me. The riders were violently pulling those poor horse’s mouths with the bridle and they were kicking the horse’s sides dead hard to make them go faster and if that wasn’t enough, they whipped them with their sticks; sometimes they whipped each other. And I remember screaming when we saw a horse slam into a padded wall as it was being ridden round a bend at top speed and it fell down which was horrible to see. I didn’t feel sorry for the rider who was lying on the dirt and then dragged over the barriers just in time before the other horses came round again and stamped on him. In all, I’d say that the Palio was a showcase of barbaric frenzy and beauty rolled into one.
‘Fancy seeing if we can find a place to eat some pasta?’ asked Joe.
‘Yeah, I bet the atmosphere will be pretty incredible out tonight.’
We didn’t bother going back to change, and I was relieved because if I’d laid down, I’d had probably fallen asleep and missed all the Palio celebrations, so that was fine by me.
It’d felt like we’d walked for miles in and around the little streets searching for an available table in a restaurant. Nearly every eating place we passed including Indian and Chinese had people queuing outside. We only needed a little table for the two of us which seemed near on impossible and just
when we were on the point of giving up, we found one.
It was at a really cute and tiny trattoria with eight small wooden tables inside and ours was positioned quite close to the window.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s swap seats.’
‘No, it’s OK, no big deal.’
‘I’d prefer it if we swapped Joe, then at least you can get on and enjoy your meal without the gawkers annoying you.’
I’d got used to seeing poor Joe with the white gauze over his eye, so I didn’t really take a lot notice. We swapped places and this time I was facing out towards the street.
Every now and then, hundreds of celebrators walked past the window blowing whistles, singing and beating drums and basically making as much noise as they could. I supposed they must’ve been the winning club which had a black and white flag with a wolf in the middle and everyone of them were wearing matching silky scarves.
It was actually difficult to concentrate on a conversation or hear what the waiter was saying for all the noise and confusion outside. Loads of them were going past in the same colours holding up a massive banner. It seemed never ending and I bet it was fun being part of one of those clubs, especially if you won the Palio and probably terrible if you lost.
I devoured my plate of pici pasta with a bacon and tomato sauce before Joe finished his and from where I was sitting, I could spy a cabinet with cakes and desserts of which one in particular caught my eye; the tiramisu.
So, we then polished-off a couple of those and washed it all down with half a bottle of white wine and by that time I was feeling quite stuffed. The waiter, who was wearing a gorgeous aftershave, didn’t check we wanted it, but he then brought out two small ice cold glasses with a yellow liquor called Lemoncello, which I’d decided just had to be my favourite liquor. Feeling very slightly under the influence and smiley, Joe, who’d had more wine than me, was also looking like a happy cat. But seeing as the happy cat wouldn’t let me pay for my half, I left a decent tip for the waiter, who incidentally was quite nice.