I started with the biggest thing around: the Torre del Mangia, the bell tower of the Palazzo Pubblico. Why am I paying good money to climb three hundred steps? I wondered as I bought the ticket. Maybe I’d regret it later, but I’d heard the views were fantastic. The small entrance doorway to the tower was in the corner of the Palazzo Pubblico’s inner courtyard. It was marked by wordy signs and a small light that turned from red to green at apparently random intervals. If it’s red, you can’t start the climb; if it’s green, you can. Or at least you can try.
My ticket read 9:30 a.m., sounding very official, and the stony-faced guardian of the entrance was equally official and quite strict about counting the number of eager tourists (twenty-five, and that’s it) going through for each time slot and green light, and a mandatory bag check too. Once I’d started up the staircase I realized why the rules were so unbending. One staircase ascends the 102 meters—335 feet—getting narrower and narrower toward the top, with hardly any room to turn or pass. The square spiral went on and on, winding past narrow window slits that offered no view and little air. Then the stone steps turned into rickety steep wooden ladders that led to successively more terrifying platforms; each one seemed like a very good opportunity to change my mind, or plunge to my death. Then my legs started to ache, then burn, and I had to press myself hard against the wall as the descending tourists squeezed past. Finally I was at the top, with a view of the red-brick campo spread out—crazily far below, surrounded by a sea of terra-cotta rooftops, then the city walls, then the green glittering contado beyond them. Climbing down was even harder: not as much effort, but more fear of falling. I wasn’t eager to try it again soon.
Siena, June 30
Dear Linney,
Thanks for your letter; it was nice to see your handwriting somewhere other than a medical chart. It’s looking like I’ll be using the full three months of my sabbatical here. It’s just as well I’m not spending too much time in the OR anyway—you know it’s time for a break when you start losing it over an episode of V Tach. I’ll tell you a secret—I’m writing a book—the book Ben left notes for. I may not be the most erudite scholar out there, but this job is mine. Don’t tell anybody; neurosurgeons aren’t supposed to spend time daydreaming about illuminated manuscripts and poring over medieval frescoes. At least not publicly.
Love, B
* * *
On the evening of July 1, the day of the Palio-eve banquet, I ran downstairs to join the Guerrini family. They gathered solemnly around me on the sidewalk.
“We have a gift for you,” Donata said, and nudged Felice forward. She held out a clumsily wrapped package in her hand, the wrapping clearly her own handiwork. But the contents trumped even the lovingly constructed wrapper—my own Civetta scarf. I bent my head and Felice draped it over my neck; I could feel her warm breath on my cheek as the silk slid over my shoulders. I hugged her tightly.
“It’s perfect.”
“Welcome to the family, Civettina,” Donata said, kissing me on both cheeks. We continued our walk to the banquet through the darkening streets.
Felice wanted to hold my hand as we walked. I shortened my steps to match hers and we dropped behind the rest of the family. Glowing torches and lanterns bathed the buildings in gold, and white-clothed tables filled the piazzas. Felice, usually ebullient and silly, hardly spoke at all, and I could feel tension in her arm through our joined hands.
“Last year my papà cried after the Palio,” she said, unprompted. “They call Civetta ‘La Nonna’ because we haven’t won in so long.” She frowned, clearly not liking the “Grandma” title applied to her contrada. “Mamma said Papà cried because his heart hurt.” She paused again, looking at her sandaled feet silhouetted against the brick pavers. “I was sad too, but I didn’t cry because I didn’t want to make him sadder,” she said matter-of-factly, and then her shoulders relaxed and she let go of my hand. She bolted ahead, yelling, “Chiocciole—andiamo!”
I watched her braids bounce against her back as she ran to join her family, happy to have been included as one of the snails. We stayed late at the cena, eating sweet and sour wild boar at long tables set in the candlelit streets. Ilario and Donata managed to sneak in a brief embrace when their children were otherwise occupied. Seeing them together made me acutely aware of how uninterruptedly single my life had been.
The week before I’d left New York, Nathaniel and I had gone out to a tapas bar for some very nice Serrano ham and even nicer sherry. We’d discussed my perpetually single state.
“Why do you think I’ve never been in love?” Nathaniel had smiled at my question indulgently. I always welcomed his incisive perspective, even though it wasn’t always exactly comfortable.
“Do you want to hear my answer?” he asked. “Or do you want to enjoy your sherry?”
I swallowed the last sip of the Manzanilla that had gotten me to the point of being able to discuss this.
“I’m ready.”
He took a breath and began.
“First: you insist that you want to work less, but there is no evidence to support this assertion. Second: you stubbornly resist being known. Third: I suspect this is because in fact you do not wish to be. Fourth: you sometimes intimidate people.”
I opened my mouth to protest—I don’t think of myself that way—but Nathaniel held up his hand to silence me. I closed my mouth again.
“Fifth: ideally, you would find someone at least as strong as you are, and that is quite difficult.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling a little sick. “Now what do I do?”
“Your best option at the moment is probably to go home and go to bed, since, as you told me at the beginning of our lovely dinner, you have a spinal decompression to do tomorrow.” I nodded, since it was true. And with that, he took my hand and ushered me out of the restaurant. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
* * *
The next entry in Gabriele’s journal was short, but disturbing.
Midwinter 1344
My little Paola is ripe with our first child, and the midwife tells us her time will be soon. I see her illuminated from within, as if she bears a brilliant sun that will shed its warmth and light on our new life. There are times though when the light seems almost cold, like a low moon through clouds, a supernatural and uneasy brightness. I have not spoken of this to the priest who takes confession in the contrada church, preferring my private prayer. I look forward to the day when I can hold the baby in my arms and put these visions to rest.
I paged ahead in the journal to look for an entry announcing the child’s birth but found none. In fact, there was no more mention of Paola either.
* * *