White Shotgun

I kept saying, “No thanks,” she became the bossy pain in the ass sister Dennis had described, saying, “Never buy cheap things; it’s a waste of money!” and “You should start wearing makeup and look like a woman!” But now, in the sensuous candlelight of the outdoor party, as we chat with yet another diva with flat-ironed blond hair and blackened eyes, a white halter showing the crescents of her breasts (“They all think they’re Donatella Versace,” according to Cecilia), I feel like a little brown squirrel in the cheap brown dress. Like everyone else, the wannabe Donatella is obsessed with Palio. Which horse is best? Which jockey will ride for Oca? What is Cecilia cooking for the contrada dinner, a preposterous-sounding undertaking where the women convene in the kitchen of their contrada headquarters and whip up dinner for two thousand members — and the horse — seated at tables set up in the street. From whose apartment in the Piazza del Campo will they watch the tratta and the prova? It’s like listening to folks planning a tailgate party when you don’t understand football.

Luckily, Sofri arrives to save me.

Nicosa’s business partner, the brilliant scientist, turns out to be a white-haired, impeccable dandy with a hooked aristocratic nose and a folded square of green and white Oca silk in the pocket of a blue blazer.

“Sofri is the secret to our success,” Cecilia says, kissing him on both cheeks.

He graces me with a luminous smile. “It is a delight to meet your beautiful sister. Has the signorina seen much of Siena?” he asks Cecilia. “It would be my pleasure to show her. You must please be my guest for Palio.” “I’d love to. Nicoli told me you invented a new coffee bean. How do you invent a coffee bean?” He leans forward, speaking intimately. “The breakthrough came when I was able to decode the coffee genome. Then it was a matter of identifying the genes that produce characteristics of sweetness. But my passion is to create new recipes using coffee — far beyond the usual,” he says, and his eyes grow big, as if he were describing a distant galaxy.

“Like what?”

“For example, rabbit loins stuffed with liver and coated in coffee. You will taste them tonight!” It takes a moment to come up with a suitably Italian response: “Beautiful!” He grasps my hand and leads me through the party, making introductions, replenishing my glass. Holding hands with an elderly gentleman feels very European.

“How is it to be the guest of honor inside the home of one of the greatest hostesses in Tuscany? I cannot imagine what it would be like if I, for example, discovered that I had a brother I had never met — and then found out he lives like this!” I laugh. “It has been quite a ride.” “Not to insult you,” he adds quickly. “Maybe you, too, live in an historic monument.” I am about to joke that I live in the Federal Building, but, remembering my promise to Cecilia, I put the brakes on just in time.

“I’m between addresses now,” I say.

“What work do you do?”

“I’m in security,” I reply, with what I hope looks like a sincere smile.

“I’m sorry — do you mean banking?” “Protecting banks. Alarm systems.” His eyebrows rise. “Interessante. I would have thought fashion.” Involuntarily I look down at the brown dress. “Really?” “Of course, bella! You know, you look just like your sister? Both of you are intelligent and lovely women. I adore her. And now I have the pleasure of knowing you!” Sofri releases the pressure on my hand with a sigh of satisfaction, and I feel that I have met my prince — never mind that he is fifty years older than I am, and that I’m in love with Sterling. His courtliness makes me feel special. The other half of the equation, of course, is my appreciation of his masculine ability to charm. I am thrilled by the novelty of what promises to be an old-fashioned, chivalrous relationship; without the need to conquer, we are free to become great friends.

At one point, behind our wineglasses, we find ourselves watching Cecilia, who is standing alone in the smashing black dress and listening in dismay to a message on her cell phone.

“She looks worried,” I say. “She hasn’t heard from Giovanni.” “I know. I told her it is to be expected.” “Isn’t it kind of a slap in the face to his parents not to show up?” “Normally yes, but not during Palio.” “Because Giovanni’s out partying?” “Fighting.”

“Fighting! For what? Defending the antipasti?” Waiters have appeared with fried artichokes, marinated mushrooms, dried beef drizzled with olive oil, cured mussels, mozzarella and tomato and basil, plates stacked all the way up their arms.

“Each contrada has a blood rival. Our enemy is Torre, the Tower. If a young man enters the zone between Torre and Oca, it means a fight. Love for one’s contrada is equal only to hatred for one’s enemy,” he says passionately. “You will find guests from different contrade here tonight, but never from Torre. Never.” Sofri removes the silk square from his breast pocket and pats the moisture at his temples. You have to love this guy. He takes everything seriously.

“Calm down, Sofri. It’s only dinner.” We move toward our table, where six or eight well-dressed people gaily introduce themselves in an incomprehensible chatter of Italian. The mood is buoyant as the food is served. After the primi course of homemade ravioli stuffed with the porcini mushrooms we bought that morning, Sofri jumps up to pour more wine. “A big red,” he explains grandly, “to accompany my latest recipe — rotolo di coniglio al caffe, rabbit rolled with coffee!” Waiters are fanning out with plates of browned meat on skewers when I notice a figure crossing from the blackness beyond the ruin walls into the lights of the party. She is purposeful but respectful; a police detective wearing a skintight blue-skirted uniform, a white gun belt, and low heels. She taps the hostess on the shoulder. Obviously, they know each other. Cecilia looks up with recognition and joy, but the detective has her cop face on.

Sofri reacts immediately.

“Stay,” he says. “This is not a problem,” absurdly denying the presence of red lights pulsing on a cruiser parked nearby, and the grim policewoman. The guests are either in on the game or too absorbed to pay attention. My guess is they know the code: Pretend to ignore this.

Sofri excuses himself and joins Nicosa and Cecilia at a serving station. The detective is holding Cecilia’s hand. Cecilia breaks away for a brief hug from Sofri. After some conversation Nicosa, Cecilia, and the detective leave together, and Sofri returns to the table.

“What is going on?”

“There has been an accident.”

“Giovanni?”

Sofri picks up his napkin. “He will be fine,” he says.

EIGHT

Along the Via Salicotto the flags of Torre were still, their colors of brilliant burgundy and blue at rest in the night like folded wings of mythological beasts.

Giovanni was found in an anonymous tunnel that turns off the main street and opens into one of a thousand tiny courtyards in the medieval part of the city, where buildings meet at random angles. The arched passageway of chalky brick is primitive, just high enough for a man seated on a wagon to pass underneath. By day it is as dark as an Etruscan tomb. By night it is lit by one fluorescent fixture. A street cleaner discovered the boy half dead in the fluttering light, in the heart of enemy territory.

If Torre was out for blood, they got it. His stab wounds made a trail of blood down the sloping pavers. We might have been able to recover footprint evidence from the attackers if the street cleaner hadn’t sprayed the ground with water before — or possibly after — discovering the victim. The street cleaner’s contrada affiliation was unknown; by then I knew enough about the cultural weirdness of Siena that it was the first question I asked.

The course the investigation should take sped through my mind — seal the crime scene, canvass the neighborhood, interview witnesses. I was impatient to talk to the first responders. They had taken my nephew to Ospedale Santa Caterina, twenty kilometers north of the city, because it is one of Cecilia’s private clinics with a higher standard of care — a questionable decision that cost time. He was almost gone from loss of blood. A knife to the chest had collapsed a lung. Breathing must have been agony.

The priest of the Oratorio di Santa Caterina, the church of the Oca district, had been a guest at the party. In his forties, with thick black hair and gold-rimmed glasses, he wore the green and white scarf with the Goose over