make some calls.” “You promised to protect the family—” “I will. Trust me. Like I said, I’m as concerned as you are.” At sunset, the
Inside the barricade, the light is rosy and emotions are high. Tomorrow is the race, and anything can happen. Today we are with friends, floating in a bubble of hope. Nicosa and Sofri are radiant, exchanging toasts and laughter with everyone around them. Cecilia’s place is empty, but Nicosa brushes inquiries aside; she will be here any moment.
At the far end, all the kids are swooning over the fantino — the jockey hired to ride Oca’s horse. He’s a swarthy thug from Sardinia, festooned with gold chains, with the long-legged body you need to race bareback and a conceited grin, making the most of his celebrity moment, as well he should. If he loses, he will be dragged off the horse and beaten by the very contradaioli who are feverishly toasting him tonight.
I cannot follow the Italian zinging around me, so I isolate myself in a safe cocoon of paranoia, surreptitiously holding my cell phone beneath the table and replaying again the images I had taken yesterday, looking for the moment Cecilia vanished.
The shots in the church are random. Mostly I was holding the cell phone up over the crowd; there are a lot of backs of heads, and shoulders with purse straps. Everyone is turned toward the silver helmets and spears just visible in the honor guard that accompanies the Palio banner down the aisle. Cecilia is out of range, behind me, but there are no suspicious faces in view. A couple of cops, unconcerned, are going the opposite way. There’s the solo nun in white.
Afterward, in Piazza Provenzano, I took a picture of the banner being carried up the street, past a dark indistinguishable array of spectators. Two fellows in black tunics with gold trim are chatting in front of an ambulance at a paramedic station.
I feel Cecilia’s absence in my body, which would be a ridiculous thing to say to Nicosa or Sofri, who seem to be putting on a show of nonchalance about the nonattendance of a major socialite at the biggest party of the year. Nicosa has a big responsibility tonight. It is his job to meet with the directors of the other contrade to negotiate partiti, a complicated system of bets that results in big payouts. Another Sienese contradiction: the night before Palio, blood enemies sit down and negotiate.
At the moment, Nicosa is conferring in whispers with two middle-aged balding men squatting by his chair — spies, Sofri explains — who report on the other jockeys and horses, factors that could change the odds. He also says that at the starting line, up until the shot from the mortaretto that begins the race, the jockeys will be making deals among themselves.
“You mean the whole thing is fixed?” “Let’s just say there are two kinds of fate,” Sofri says. “Chance, and money.” Is Cecilia angry enough to humiliate Nicosa by staying away at this crtitical event? Is Nicosa angry enough to have done her harm? Someone appears to be waving at me. Down at the curve in the street, where the tables turn and disappear from sight like a glittering toy Christmas train, a woman I don’t recognize seems to be trying to get my attention.
Edging along the sidewalk, past the endless chain of tables, is like being inside one of those unbroken three-minute tracking shots in an epic movie, where they pan along a battlefield, ending at the eyes of an innocent child, a waif held by its mother, staring at the carnage of war with huge questioning eyes.
Inspector Martini and her baby.
Martini looks totally different all dressed up, smoking a cigarette, hair loose, wearing makeup and a low-cut, sensuous dress. Yes, she had been waving. We shake hands firmly, then relent and kiss on both cheeks. We are Oca sisters, not at the police station now. She pivots the child on her lap — a wispy-haired, tiny thing — eager to show off her daughter’s English.
“Tell Ana your name.” “Sylvana,” says the girl.
“Tell her how old you are.” She holds up two delicate fingers.
“Do you like Oca?”
Sylvana nods solemnly.
Martini asks, “What about Torre?” The little girl sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.
The mother laughs with pride, exhaling smoke, and rewarding the girl with biscotti dipped in coffee.
I smile at the child.
“Have you seen Cecilia?” “No,” says Martini, looking around. “Isn’t she here?” “She disappeared yesterday in church. There’s been no communication.” “Did she and Nicoli have an argument?” “Yes, but this feels different. After what happened to Giovanni — and Lucia Vincenzo — we have to consider that she has come into harm’s way.” Martini presses the baby’s head against her chest, as if to shield her from the very possibility.
“You are saying someone took Cecilia?” she asks softly. “Kidnapped her?” “That’s Dennis Rizzio’s feeling.” She crushes the cigarette, her expression serious. “It’s common now, and on the rise. We have hundreds of incidents each year. Sometimes it’s for money, but in that case they usually take a child. The mafias will also take someone to humiliate an enemy.” “What’s the rate of safe return of the hostages?” She twists her lips. “Not good. Less than half? I’m guessing.” “You can’t know because you don’t have the bodies.” “
“Ana,” says Nicosa. “We are missing you!” “I was just talking to—” He cuts me off. “Come back. You must taste the pasta; tonight it is very special. Ravioli stuffed with squash and Gorgonzola cheese.” You could make him for unconcerned, holding a glass of wine and a cigarette, but his grip on my wrist is tightening, hard. I choose not to flinch. Remaining silent, accepting the pain, communicates my resistance.
“Come, be with the family.” “See you later,” I manage.
Martini nods, but her large eyes take everything in.
My fingers are swollen and numb. I fear they will burst, like water balloons, until Nicosa releases my wrist. We walk back up the street, past hundreds of animated contrada members in folding chairs.
“Why are you talking to the police?” “I was just saying hello.” I stop the march to face him. “Where is Cecilia?” “Always the same question. What do you think?” he says with anguish. “I took her? I kidnapped my own wife and hid her in the woods?” I wish he hadn’t said that. The husband is always the prime suspect, especially when he makes statements before he has been accused.
“I’m worried that she was taken.” “You may be right,” he says grimly. “It wouldn’t be surprising. But now is not the time. It is too soon to involve the police; that is not how the system works here. If someone does have my wife, I will handle it.” “How?”
“If it’s ransom, pay the money.” “They haven’t asked for money.” “Whatever it is, I will get her back.” “Really?” I say skeptically.
“I love her. What do you think?” “I think you’re up against a pack of ruthless criminals. Forgive me if I don’t stay for dessert.” Eventually I find my way out of Oca territory, through darkened streets throbbing with laughter behind lighted bamboo walls, arriving at the Walkabout to find it empty. Chris, the Englishman, is actually sitting down and reading a book. He seems surprised to see me.
“Why aren’t you in Oca?” “It was time to go.”
“Another outcast at life’s feast,” he says, automatically drawing a Foster’s. “Frankly, I’d rather be in a civilized pub.” “I’m looking for Cecilia.” “Why? Where is she?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask. She wasn’t at the contrada dinner.” Chris raises his eyebrows with mock concern. “Ooooh,” he says. “Juicy! I’ll bet she and the hubby are having issues again.” “Again?”
“Well, she had that revenge fuck with the Commissario, the old fascist. How could she?” “Cecilia and the Commissario? From Torre?” Is this what Nicosa meant by “Whenever your sister decides it is time to come home”? Does he seriously suspect that at this moment she is having an assignation with his enemy, the chief of police?
“You could have heard your sister and her husband screaming at each other all the way from the abbey. She even went back to wherever it is she came from.” “El Salvador?”
