White Shotgun

against the brash white light coming through the open shutters; there are stag horns on the mantelpiece, above which a Napoleonic portrait stares out.

“Take a good look,” he calls from the kitchen.

The view is vertiginous and astonishing. The Piazza del Campo is shaped like a shell made of pink brick and gray travertine, rimmed with cafes at the foot of seven-story buildings that are joined together shoulder to shoulder. As the sun rises, their windows take on a glow like the amber eyes of the wolves that are the symbol of the city. Over the past few days, citizens have shoveled yellow earth off a truck and covered the outer ring of the Campo, transforming it into a racetrack. Sofri says it is good luck to touch la terra, the holy earth, which is as soft as powdered mustard.

“When you hold la terra in your hand, you hold the miracle of rebirth. Il Palio is about to begin. There is a saying, whenever we find ourselves fretting over something small and insignificant: ‘Don’t worry, because there will soon be la terra in piazza — earth in the piazza.’ The cycle of life will go on.” I find myself staring down at thousands of men surging toward a small arena where ten unsaddled horses held by grooms are pulling nervously. The crowd seems young — average age thirty — ordinary men in short-sleeved polo shirts with cowls of their contrada scarves, excited to a fever pitch. I can see TV cameras and the flat white caps of local policemen. But from an FBI point of view, the Campo is a security nightmare.

You have a ring of ancient, unreinforced structures filled with windows. An enclosed, bowl-like space with narrow exits and roofs galore, creating the potential for a catastrophic number of casualties. They predict that on the evening of the decisive race, on day four of Palio, over sixty thousand people will jam shoulder to shoulder in the center of the ring, totally transfixed by violent men riding unpredictable animals. Nobody will be looking up.

“I hope a well-trained military unit is minding the store,” I call back to Sofri. “Because this is an invitation to bad things happening.” “It is very emotional. There are always fights,” Sofri answers. “It is expected.” I join him in the kitchen for the coffee ritual. With the most sophisticated apparatusus in the world available to him — some of which he invented — Sofri prefers the classic two-cup stovetop espresso maker, which produces a crema (the delicate layer of foam) that is almost sweet. He talks about balance of taste in the espresso liquor as if it were fine brandy. It would be an unforgivable transgression to dilute the essence with steamed milk.

“I have been working on a new coffee recipe,” Sofri says, pulling a plate from the refrigerator.

I hope it is not another species of wildlife rolled in coffee grounds. We escaped the coffee-roasted rabbit at the contrada dinner. This one I can handle: fresh dates covered with coffee cream made with egg yolks — sweet little bites to go with the espresso. Spearing seconds with a tiny fork, I ask if Sofri knows anything about a strange man who appeared outside Giovanni’s hospital room.

“What strange man?”

“He didn’t have any hands—” “Bleah! That’s terrible.” “—just weird old-fashioned wooden prostheses. He had a bodyguard who did everything for him. Well, hopefully not everything.” “You are making this up.”

“I swear.”

“You dreamt it, maybe.”

“No, it’s real.”

“Then why are you laughing?” he asks.

“I’m not laughing,” I say, quashing the smile reflex, which signifies deception. “It isn’t funny, not to have any hands.” “Of course not,” says Sofri, fussing with the gas flame, turning it up and then down. “It’s a sad situation for anyone.” “I thought you might know him.” “Me?”

“Nicoli knows him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. But we saw this man coming out of Giovanni’s room.” Sofri shrugs. “It’s a hospital. You are bound to see disturbing things,” he says, pouring thick, slightly licorice-scented liquor into two tiny cups. “The old man must have had the wrong room.” I never said the intruder was old. Now I am fairly certain that Sofri knows exactly who the Puppet is, and what he was doing at my nephew’s bedside.

A roar of exaltation goes up from the crowd, like the jubilant cry at the first strike in the first game of the World Series. We hurry from the kitchen to the windows. On the dignitary’s platform a man wearing an ascot is picking numbered balls from an urn and announcing the results over a microphone.

“That is the mayor of Siena. A horse has been assigned to Torre! Wait, let’s see …” Another cry, and Sofri slaps his knee with delight. “ Aha! Torre got a brenna.” “What is that?”

“A bad horse. Hear it? That is Oca shouting.” I see a mass of green and white contradaioli braying, “Beh! Beh!”

“What are they saying?”

“Torre got a sheep instead of a horse! Look — there’s the commissario of the police. He is a director of Torre. Cornuto!” he shouts gleefully.

The Commissario appears to be weeping and wiping his eyes.

“Is he crying?” “I told you. Emotions.”

The powerful commissario, who would go so far as to keep blood splatter evidence out of the police report in order to deny the attack on Giovanni, is crying?

“Ti faccio un culo cosi!” Sofri shouts deliriously out the window, making a ghetto move, fingers pointing down like pistols, which I guess means something like, “Die, asshole!” I don’t see what’s wrong with the poor horse of Torre, to be jeered at like a nerd on the schoolyard. All the horses look beautiful, with long delicate legs and lean hindquarters; mixed breeds with thoroughbred lineage who comport themselves like aristocracy, compared with the down-to-earth, spiritually attuned wild mustangs I saw on the terrorism case in Oregon. But when Oca’s horse is assigned — a gorgeous white one — Sofri reacts as if he has been pierced with a javelin. His hand slams his forehead and he drops dramatically to his knees — like just about everybody else down there in Oca, moaning and praying in a state of suicidal despair.

“What’s the matter? Did we get a bad horse?” “No,” he moans. “Worse! A good horse!” “What is bad about a good horse?” “If you lose with a good horse, it’s much worse than if you lose with a bad horse.” His cell phone rings and it turns out to be Cecilia, sharing this agonizing moment of having won the best horse in the Palio. After much crazed Italian back and forth, Sofri hangs up.

“She says everybody’s losing their minds!” He thrusts a pair of binoculars in my hand. “Look at the stand for dignitaries, and you will see your sister.” The torrential screaming of the crowd, the braying of horns and popping of unknown small explosions, maybe firecrackers, maybe guns, make it hard to hear the person next to you.

“Where?” I shout.

“In front of the Mangia Tower!” Panning the crowd, I find Cecilia and Nicosa standing on a platform with a group of officials at the foot of a square bell tower. The tower is several hundred feet high, tall enough to cast a shadow across the Campo to the fountain in the center, where Cecilia and I had stopped during a hot afternoon, on one of our first walks in the city, when we were still utter strangers. We sat on the edge in the cool mist, watching a pigeon drink from a braid of water pouring from the mouth of a she-wolf.

“This is historic.”

“It is called Fonte Gaia, the Fountain of Joy,” Cecilia said. I laughed. “No, I mean us. The first time we’re together.” “You’re not what I expected,” she admitted.

“In what way?”

“You’re easier to talk to. I was afraid you would be cold and buttoned-up, like they are in the FBI.” I smiled. “You’re different from what I expected, too. How can you live in high heels?” “My back hurts all the time.” “Why don’t you just take them off?” “I’m used to it. You have a boyfriend? Doesn’t he want you to dress up?” “Sure, but you look amazing just going to the market.” She liked that. “Can I ask you something?” She seemed almost shy. “Do you carry a gun?” “Yes.”

“Even if you’re not on duty?” I nodded. “It’s not required, but if you didn’t, that’s the one time something would happen, and you’d get in trouble because you didn’t have your weapon.” She eyed me suspiciously. “I hope you don’t have a gun right now.” “No worries, I left it home. I do have a boyfriend. I want you to see him.” I showed her the wallpaper on my cell phone, which is a photo of Sterling on a horse, all decked out in western gear, lassoing a calf. She looked shocked.

“Your boyfriend is a cowboy?” “In his spare time. That’s in Texas, where he’s from. That’s Wizzy.” “Wizzy?”