White Shotgun

THIRTEEN

Palio, Day 1—FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 5:45 A.M. The reflection of the empty ironwork bed slides around me as I open the doors of the mirrored armoire and pull out a linen skirt Cecilia has loaned me, wrapping it around my waist and slipping on a white T-shirt and leather sandals. I tie an Oca scarf around my neck, letting the point of the triangle hang down the back. Day by day, I seem to be losing my L.A. edge and looking more like Cecilia.

She and Nicosa were leaving at dawn for the tratta, or “choosing of the horses,” that begins the festival, when I cornered her in the second-floor arcade. She was dressed with conservative elegance in an Oca-green suit with an opalescent sheen. I was still wearing pajamas with rockets on them.

“Cecilia, look. I know who he is.” “Who?”

“The man with no hands we saw outside Giovanni’s room. He’s mafia,” I said quietly. “It’s obvious.” She squinted at the soft light filling the archways.

“What are you trying to do?” she said at last.

“Protect you and Giovanni. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me he wasn’t the Puppet, a mob boss from the south.” She seemed very busy with the contents of her purse, so I went on.

“You don’t think the idiots who attacked Giovanni aren’t watching the abbey?” “Giovanni is safe in the hospital under police security, is he not?” she said, making an inventory of her makeup case, sunglasses, keys, cell phone.

“Yes, but believe it — now they’re watching you. They know every time you come and go. They are very capable of taking both you and your husband out in a heartbeat, and where would that leave Giovanni?” “I know they are capable. Every day in my work I see people capable of the worst possible things.” Her dark brown eyes, moist and troubled, met mine. “I will tell you the truth. When I started out to look for you it was because of my duty to honor my mother’s wish — to make sure Miguel Sanchez’s daughter had her rightful inheritance. When the detective found you in the FBI, I thought it was a sign from God. I know that my husband is under the thumb of the mafias, and I don’t see how he will ever get out. I thought you could help me. Really, I am still a stranger here. I didn’t know what to do. You see now why I have been desperate, especially now that this beast—” Her voice was trembling. “He comes to my son’s hospital room—” I wanted my notebook very badly to write down every word of her confession, but if I lost her, with Palio about to begin, it could be days before I got her back.

“Let’s sit down,” I said, indicating the carved wooden chairs along the terra-cotta-tiled corridor.

“I can’t. The tratta is starting.” “Just tell me — how is Nicoli under their thumb?” “I don’t know for certain. It must be that he’s paying bribes, like everybody else, and wants it to stop. He has tried to get out and they won’t let him.” “How do you know?”

“That is my belief. When his mistress went white shotgun, he changed. He was very distant, even frightened. I see that today, but at the time I was so angry I could not see anything. And now, with Giovanni — I am afraid one day they will just kill us all.” “What does Nicoli say? Have you talked about this?” “He won’t speak about it. He says not to worry, that we are protected.” “By whom?”

She shrugged, holding back tears. “I don’t know his connections.” “I can help you,” I said firmly. “But you have to tell me everything you know about your husband’s business. It’s possible this all traces back to Lucia Vincenzo. You know she was laundering drug money for ’Ndrangheta? Maybe he is, too.” “Yes. Okay. I will tell you what I know. Maybe we can get inside his computer.” “We can do that,” I say, almost choking with excitement.

“Will you go to the provincial police? You have to be careful. They are also in the pocket of the mafias.” “We’ll take it step-by-step. But I need more information. When can we talk?” “During the feast is impossible. Every hour is taken up with one ceremony or another, and Nicoli and I are always in the public eye. He is waiting for me now. I have to go.” “You need more protection than just his word. I’ll go with you.” “It is not necessary. We could not be safer than to be in public, surrounded by contrada members.” Composure back, Cecilia struggled to look confident.

An hour later, Sofri pulls up in the courtyard, steamy exhaust wrapping around his little black Renault. Excitement has been building in town all week — kiosks festooned with brilliant colors, drummers in medieval costumes calling men to arms, the unfathomable buzz among the Sienese. As we leave the abbey, the flare of day is just striking the hills.

My elderly guide is all decked out in an Oca-green blazer with a white shirt and a red bow tie. The white mustache and flowing hair make him look like a yachtsman for the green team, but today he is il professore. We’ve scarcely said “Buongiorno” before he launches into a monologue about the tratta, the arcane system by which each contrada receives its horse by random draw — just three days, mind you, before the big race. A veterinarian is at this moment checking out all the horses entered in the pool, because the rules say a contrada cannot give back its fated animal, even if it turns out to be lame. However, attempting to poison the steed of your enemy is an honorable tradition.

We park outside the walls of the city and hurry past Ethiopian traders opening their stalls of Chinese-made contraband handbags. There aren’t many tourists yet. It is barely 7:30 a.m. and the sun is already burning. We climb up hills, then down into the Piazza del Campo. Police are posted at the many entrances. After the empty streets, it is a shock to pass through the archways and discover a massive gathering of thousands of contrade members, as if the entire city had been herded into the plaza.

Sofri puts a hand at the small of my back, guiding us through the crowd to the doorway of one of the private palazzos that overlook the Campo. He unlocks a forbidding outer door, and then we enter a cool tiled lobby, climbing four stories to the top-floor apartment, a large open space dominated by an arch. Beyond is a fireplace with a window on either side from which you can see the square.

“Please. Be at home.”

Home it is, with warm yellow walls, mismatched wing chairs, a red-and-white-peppermint-striped sofa for rainy afternoons leafing through the books and journals on the coffee table. A brass telescope stands in silhouette 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 cafés 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 tèrra, the holy earth, which is as soft as powdered mustard.

“When you hold la tèrra 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 tèrra 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 crèma (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 così!” 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?”

“The horse. My boyfriend’s name is Sterling.” She raised her eyebrows skeptically, and we both started laughing.

“Does this seem ridiculous?” I asked. “Like, if you’re American, of course you would date a cowboy?” “It might be fun to date a cowboy.” “Trust me.”

“Scusi.”

Her cell phone rang, and she answered with enthusiasm. A toddler ran in spirals in the middle of the Campo, trailing the white-and-black-striped flag of Istrice, the Porcupine. I found myself enthralled by the fountain, as if the sound had been turned up. The smell of damp stone took me back to winter rain outside my grandfather’s house, looking through the screen door and feeling oddly safe.

“I’m sorry,” said Cecilia, slipping the phone into her bag. “That was my husband’s business partner, Sofri.” “The scientist?”

“He’s more like the family adviser. The ‘secretary of state.’ I rely on him for everything. He’s very charming,” she confided. “A bachelor who loves the ladies. He’ll love you. Should we go?” “How are your feet?” I asked.

“Fine,” she sniffed. “There was never any problem.” Now, as I look through the binoculars, Sofri leans in close.

“Are you able to see Cecilia?” he asks.

“She’s right there. Near the tower.” “That tower has always reminded me of her,” he says thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Do you think I am right? Does it resemble her?” I move the glasses along the graceful column of brick and examine the details of the white travertine belfry.

“It looks like a lily.”

He is delighted. “Your sister is a devoted Catholic. A believer to the core. I can see it, the white Easter lily,” he muses. “The resurrection. A wonderful analysis; she would like that.” “Why do you think it resembles Cecilia?” He takes a moment. “It stands alone,” he replies at last.

“It’s lonely?”

He shrugs. “Lonely, maybe, but look how it dominates the square.” “She’s not totally alone. Cecilia told me she depends on you.” “I love her like a daughter, but — you will see — it takes time to gain her trust.” “What do you think she wants from me?” I ask curiously.

“That’s a funny question. Wave!” he urges. “She knows we’re here.” I wave the Oca scarf, calling, “Cecilia! We’re up at Sofri’s. Look!” Even through the binoculars she is small and far away, the space between us large. She idly scans the buildings but doesn’t seem to pick us out in the mass of banners and faces in the windows. Eventually, she turns away.

FOURTEEN

Since the last time I saw Giovanni he looked like a corpse in a wax museum, it is a wonderful relief to find him sitting up in bed in the hospital. He is on painkillers, making him glassy-eyed and carefree.

“Did you hear?” he babbles. “I won the lotto!” “Yes, you were lucky. Do you know what happened to you?” He shrugs. “Boh.”

“You were jumped outside of Muriel Barrett’s apartment.” He tries to process this.

“And then you were taken to a tunnel off Via Salicotto.” “The police said that, but I don’t remember.” “What do you remember?” He gestures toward a glass of water, and when I give it to him, he drinks with gusto through a straw.

“Did you see who attacked you, Giovanni?” He lies back on the pillows and looks up at the fluorescent lights. Just drinking has exhausted him.

“Never mind. You rest.” He is quiet, and I think he might doze, but then a tear rolls down his cheek. I stroke his hair, thick and unwashed.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He tries to raise the broken arm, but he is too weak to lift the cast. “I kick their ass.” Tears are streaming now, but his eyes remain uplifted, as if by looking elsewhere he will not have to see something awful.

“My father all the time tells me, ‘If they hit you, you kick them in the nuts.’ No. You kick them first in the nuts — first.” “You’re a fighter like your dad.” “He comes into my room.” “Who? Your dad?” Giovanni rolls his head to one side, slowly. The tears hit the pillow.

I prompt him. “Who came in here? Was it a strange old guy without any hands?” His eyes go empty. I find a tissue and wipe his cheek. He is fading fast as winter light.

“Why did you go to Muriel Barrett’s apartment?” He does not respond.

“You drove outside the walls to see Muriel. You went for a reason.” “Non lo so,” he whispers. “The police already ask.” With the police guard outside the open door there is no privacy, so I sit on the bed and lean in close.

“Giovanni, listen. I have no agenda except to protect you and your family. You’ve been targeted by the mafias, and these people do not fool around. What’s going on? Are you involved with drugs? Stolen property? You can tell me. I have friends who will help.” “Sbagliato,” he answers heavily. An involuntary grin crosses his face — that sign of deception — but it probably doesn’t count if you’re high on Percodan. “Wrong. You are fucked up.” “Who’s fucked up?” I ask gently. “Who’s in the hospital because he was jumped by professional hit men?” “I don’t sell drugs.” His head relaxes back and he sighs. “Sono di merda.”

He falls silent.

I now have custody of Giovanni’s mailbox car, which gets me to the Walkabout Pub. Chris, the dour Englishman behind the bar, is wearing rainbow-colored suspenders over a black shirt, adding a note of frivolity to the dull red atmosphere.

“Enjoying the Palio?” I ask.

“The party has barely begun,” he replies ambiguously, putting a Foster’s under my nose.

“What happens tomorrow?” “I don’t keep up with it,” he says. “I just pour the beer.” “Why do you live here?” “I enjoy the expat community.” “And the Italian girls?” He blows through his lips. “I stay away from the Italian girls. I value my equipment, if you take my meaning.” Muriel comes in through the door, but instead of her usual oversized pop art tunics and wild tights, bare feet in splintering old Dr. Scholl’s, she is wearing city clothes: a long brown skirt and a beige crocheted jacket.

“You look nice,” I say. “Where are you off to?” She is edgy, and does not sit down. “London.” “For how long?” “I don’t know. Sheila’s taken ill again. The tumor’s back. They want her to do another round of chemo. We’ll just have to go from there.” “When are you leaving?” “The taxi is outside.” “Anything we can do?” “No worries. Madame Defarge”—meaning her demented landlady—“has everything in hand.” Chris puts up a rum e pera. “One for the road?” Muriel turns away, as if the sight makes her queasy. She looks as flushed and panicky as she did in the hospital corridor, when we learned Giovanni had gone into cardiac arrest.

“No, I couldn’t. I’m just too upset.” “Sorry, love,” he says, disappearing the drinks. “What’s that you’ve got? Going-away present for me?” She’s clutching a rectangular package about seventeen by twelve inches, tightly wrapped with brown paper and twine.

“No, dear; it’s a painting for Giovanni, to wish him a speedy recovery.” “Very cool. I’ll give it to him.” I take the package.

She seems rattled. “I was going to leave it with Chris.” “No worries,” I assure her.

“Well, all right. Give him my best. Ciao, everyone,” she calls, and turns away, wiggling her fingers good-bye over her shoulder as she pulls the door open. We watch the taxi maneuver down the street.

“Did she say when she’s coming back?” I wonder.

“In the meantime,” Chris says, “let’s not allow those shots to go to waste.” Chris places the untouched rum e pera back on the bar. He does one and I do the other. We do a couple more, until the alcohol makes the world a cheerful place, with pleasant surprises around each corner. By the time I climb a bit unsteadily out of the mailbox car in the abbey courtyard, faithfully clutching the painting, I’m not at all concerned that it is meant for Giovanni. Like a greedy child, I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

Veering into the kitchen, I turn on the lights and locate a knife. In a wink I have popped the twine and ripped through the brown paper and protective layers of newsprint. What the hell; I’ll fix it later. I let the wrapping drop and lift out the painting. Another image of high-flying clouds, nicely done. Admiring the delicate wash of blues, I notice that a puff of white powder has accumulated on my fingers. I flip the canvas over and slice off the rest of the backing. Hidden inside the painting is a plastic bag, spilling cocaine where it was pierced by the blade.

FIFTEEN

Palio, Day 2—SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 7:00 A.M. To ensure the highest level of security, a private ambulance and an unmarked police car leave the hospital early in the morning and arrive at the abbey before the city wakes. The former chapel on the ground floor has been emptied of white sofas and turned into a hospital room, where two nurses are at the ready alongside state-of-the-art medical equipment. Officers will be posted there around the clock. Giovanni, strength and youth on his side, is expected to make a good recovery. The optimism floating through the household like an errant butterfly matches the celebratory mood of the second day of Palio, when traditionally the banner is joyfully carried through the streets, to be blessed by all in church.

And here I come, with my plastic grocery bag of cocaine.

Having settled Giovanni and given instructions to the nurses, my sister is in the garden, cutting flowers.

“Are you ready?” she asks. “We are leaving for church.” She looks me up and down — surprised that I have agreed to wear one of the Ungaro dresses she offered, gray silk chiffon gathered at the waist, with transparent sleeves that button at the cuff.

“Fantastico!” she cries approvingly. “How do you like it?” “It feels like nothing on.”

She laughs. “That’s what you pay for. A lot of money to walk around naked.” Cecilia is wearing another shimmery million-dollar Oca-green suit, low-cut, with multiple strands of solid gold necklaces. She has positioned her feet carefully on a paving stone so as not to ruin her hot-pink heels. Picking up a basket of roses, she pivots carefully on the stone.

“These are for Giovanni, because he must miss the blessing of the Palio. What do you have there?” she asks of the canvas in my hand.

“It’s a painting by the English lady, Muriel Barrett. She left it for Giovanni on her way out of town.” “She is going for good?” Cecilia asks, in a tone that suggests she wouldn’t mind.

“Unclear. Her partner in London is sick.” Cecilia examines the work. “Che bella,” she says admiringly. “But why is the back ripped off?” “I wasn’t looking for it, but this is what I found.” I open the grocery bag. Inside is the broken sack of cocaine.

“It was hidden inside the painting. This woman is passing drugs to your son.” Cecilia twists her lips together. “What do you mean? Passing drugs?” “They’re both dealing, or she’s selling and Giovanni is using. Either way, the load was meant for him.” “I find that hard to believe.” “She left it for Giovanni at the Walkabout Pub. I was there.” Cecilia stares off, trying to get her bearings. The morning sun has grown exponentially hotter; if we stay out here a moment longer, the two of us in our phantasmagorical dresses will air-dry like beef jerky.

“I’d like to talk to him,” I say.

“He’s just had a sedative.”

“When we get back?”

Cecilia nods, striding ahead. “Without a doubt.” “And you’ll tell me about your husband’s business?” I follow her into the cool of the kitchen, where she angrily fills a bucket and throws the roses in. Her rage is about to explode — at me, at everything.

“Don’t worry, Ana; I am not going through this again.” “Going through what?”

Nicosa comes into the kitchen. He’s wearing a finely sculpted dark suit, his hair still wet and tousled from the shower.

“Ready, ladies?”

Cecilia thrusts the plastic bag at her husband. “Cocaine.” He peers inside with the revulsion of a man looking at a dead animal.

“Giovanni is selling drugs. That Englishwoman hooked him back into it.” “Tenerlo! Fermata! Di chi parli?”

Cecilia explains, half-shouting in high-pitched Italian that the drugs were found in a painting given to their son by Muriel Barrett.

“Where is Muriel Barrett now?” Nicosa demands. “I will break her neck.” “Where is she, Ana?”

“Somewhere in the U.K.”

“But the FBI can find her and have her arrested, right?” Cecilia says.

I’m stammering. “I don’t know—” Does she realize what she’s saying?

Cecilia cries, “I want her to pay!” “We can call the authorities in London,” I say mollifyingly.

Cecilia’s gold-laden chest is heaving with emotion. I am watching the epitome of the Italian ruling class becoming undone.

“I insist that you arrest her!” she says.

“Arrest her?” Nicosa says.

“Yes, Ana can arrest her! Ana works for the FBI.” Nicosa regards me with astonishment. “You are with the FBI?” There it goes. My cover. The case. One thing I learned in undercover school: it’s a game that changes by the minute.

Make an adjustment.

I affect neutrality, as if there is nothing to hide. “It’s true.” Nicosa rubs his temples. “I think I am still sleeping. I have not woken up to the new world order. Explain this to me.” “When we hired the investigator to find my sister, he found her in the Los Angeles FBI,” Cecilia says.

“It doesn’t mean anything over here. I can’t arrest Muriel Barrett,” I interject quickly. “But I can call Scotland Yard.” “Why did I never know this?” Cecilia says, “I didn’t think you would like my sister if you knew.” We exchange looks. She knows that she has blown it, and she doesn’t care.

Nicosa shakes his head and laughs. “I am spinning!” “Never mind about Muriel Barrett,” I say. “The point is that whatever your son is into has to be stopped. Now.” He turns on me. “You have no place in this.” “I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t see how that is possible,” he says dismissively.

“You didn’t object when I showed up at the pool and saved you from a possible beating.” “What are you talking about?” Cecilia wants to know.

“When I first got here. Now I understand why the contrada members who confronted you at the pool were upset. They did not want Giovanni to be alfiere because he was selling drugs to their kids. Does that make sense to you?” Nicosa coolly lights a cigarette.

“You didn’t understand the Italian.” “Translate for me.”

Nicosa shrugs and smoothes his wet hair. “They’re jealous. Who is alfiere is an important thing.” “Can we stop playing games?” Cecilia breaks allegiance with her husband by making a confession: “Giovanni did at one time have a problem with marijuana.” “Welcome to the world,” I say. “But now he’s involved with hard drugs.” “Not at all,” scoffs Nicosa. “He was smoking a little weed, but not anymore.” “Kids lie, I am sorry to say.” “Tests don’t lie,” Cecilia says. “We test his urine randomly, here at home. He made a contract with his drug counselor, and he’s kept it. He’s been through a program, Ana. He’s clean.” I hold up the bag. “What about this?” Cecilia slips on her sunglasses. “I don’t know about that. We will ask Giovanni when we get back from church.” “I mean, this is evidence. Do you have a safe?” Nicosa opens the bottom cabinet where the prosciutto is stored. “Put it here,” he says.

I believe he is 100 percent serious.

Instead, we lock the bag of cocaine in the trunk of Cecilia’s car, and after checking again on the sleeping boy, and the policeman reading a newspaper outside his door, the three of us jam into the Ferrari.

“I’m glad you will see the blessing,” my sister says stiffly. “The ceremony is very beautiful.” Winding down the mountain in the open car, Nicosa in glamorous Prada sunglasses and Cecilia and I with Oca scarves tied over our hair, we look like we should be in an Audrey Hepburn movie, but the tension is far from romantic.

“So now we have a spy in our house,” Nicosa says.

“I’m sorry if it looks that way.” “Things went bad the minute you arrived,” he decides, and then, essentially, invites me to leave. “Vatene!” is the command.

Cecilia snaps, “Non parlare a mia sorella in quella maniera.” Don’t talk to my sister that way!

“I’m curious about tua sorella.” Nicosa’s voice becomes louder as he goes on. “Is she here to report on us? Does she carry some kind of list in her pocket, and when she sees someone America doesn’t like she calls the FBI? Because I don’t understand. Explain to me.” He catches my eyes in the mirror. “What are you doing here?” “I’m trying to protect your family from people like the mafia boss I saw in the hospital. It did not start out that way. I was invited by my sister,” I say, and the taste of the lie is sour on my tongue.

“How do you know this man you saw in the hospital?” Nicosa asks.

Cecilia cuts in quickly, “I never spoke his name.” “He had a bodyguard, and he looked like a crook,” I say, covering. “I’m trained to know.” Nicosa bears down on the accelerator.

“He looks at you crooked so you make a terrible and false accusation?” The anxiety in the car ratchets up with the rpms. The curves come and vanish. We are rigid in our seats.

“Can you tell me what this man was doing there?” I say.

“I am delighted to tell you. He is a friend of the family,” Nicosa replies. “He came to express his concern for our boy.” I imagine Cecilia rolling her eyes behind the dark glasses.

“How do you know him? What does he do?” “He is a businessman,” Nicosa says.

“Fine.” I’m getting used to the Italian game of deny-what-we-both-know. “The important one here is Giovanni. As I told Cecilia, your son is in danger.” “Leave it to us to protect our son.” He hits the gas and we suck in the silence until we screech up outside the walls and stride without speaking to Oca headquarters, where the procession to bless the banner is about to begin. Nicosa gets out, lobbing something in Italian that makes Cecilia flinch, and joins a group of men. She and I are left standing in the sun, filled with malevolent adrenaline.

“What did Nicoli say just now?” “You don’t want to know.”

“Did he threaten you?”

She doesn’t answer. I try to read her face, but all I get are fireballs reflected in the dark glasses. She glimmers and glitters with evasion. What is she still protecting?

“Don’t worry about us,” she says finally. “We will be okay. It is like the civil war in my country. You get used to it. You learn how to survive.” The tamburino drowns her out, banging a commanding pulse. People are chanting a poem about it—“In vivo porta il morto / E ’l morto suona” —how the living drum brings the dead to life. The cycle of Palio goes on. Lines of men and women are forming. And now, this is it. We truly are going to war, marching with an animated throng of Oca contradaioli through the sinuous streets, behind the drummer and alfieri carrying the flags of the crowned white Noble Goose. The boy substituting for Giovanni must have been practicing all year as well, because the two flag bearers are perfectly matched.

The soldiers at arms are dressed in pewter helmets and shoulder armor, leather tunics with mail skirts, carrying spears. The costumes are impeccable, down to the embroidery and finely turned swords. There are more men in tights than a Russian ballet, and it’s no joke. Their faces are dead serious — no smirking or waving back at tourists, no awareness of them — as if the authentic Sienese among us have truly been transported back to the fifteenth century.

“Come with me and walk with Oca,” says Cecilia.

“Am I allowed to?”

“You’re wearing the colors; it is fine.” We are part of a long procession that includes all seventeen contrade. I feel like an imposter, walking with the Oca women — young girls, arm in arm, singing boastful victory songs, then mamas and nonnas in sleeveless dresses with pocketbooks hanging over their flaccid wrists. Ahead of us are teenage boys in baggy shorts, and men in business suits, including Nicosa and Sofri, way up front.

“What happens if you marry someone from a different contrada?” “You will not see him. During Palio he will go back to his parents’ house.” “Is that true?”

“Wives and husbands often separate for the week of the feast.” Cecilia gives a rueful laugh, still smarting from Nicosa’s parting shot. “Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?” she says.

It is disorienting to be inside a parade instead of protecting it, to be the focus of dazed tourists backed into doorways, nobody understanding what in hell is going on. It’s the folks in modern dress who look out of place, because the contrada procession dominates the streets, sweeping forward with the force of absolute commitment that carries the tall, elongated Palio banner through history to the church. A new one is commissioned each year from a local artist. This one is a bright abstract of the virgin, with multicolored garlands trailing like the tails of fanciful horses.

There are a couple of relaxed-looking provincial cops in light blue shirts with epaulets — and, if worst came to worst, those guys with the spears. Is it possible there is one spot on earth where there is no need for security or suspicion of petty thievery, kidnapping, or terrorist attack? If so it must be here and now, at eleven in the morning, along this sun-kissed stone passageway thronged with believers, where the smells of deeply cooked complex sauces for the celebration lunch are beginning to drift through the aqua shutters of kitchen windows, where ghosts of ancient arches are still visible in the brickwork, and where plants grow arrogantly out of the walls.

Finally, giving in to the spirit, I march downhill to the rhythm of the drums, ending up in Piazza Provenzano, a small square facing the white façade of Santa Maria church. The doors are wide open and the procession keeps pushing inside, a giant traffic jam, as the parishes of each contrada enter behind their alfieri and tamburinos.

The church has simple smooth white walls and is filled with light. In the apse, a golden altar is topped with mosaics and covered with flowers. The moment we enter, a change comes over Cecilia. Never mind that the pews are overflowing, and the atmosphere is as rowdy as a ball game — this is a sacred space that is obviously a deep comfort. It seems natural for her to make the transition from the outside world, murmuring prayers without the slightest self-consciousness.

Sensing my curiosity, she tries to explain. “I am asking for help. I believe it will come.” “Me, too,” I say, although I have no idea what I’m talking about. Help? From where? To do what? Make all of it just go away?

Cecilia and I stay close, but we have lost sight of Nicosa and Sofri in the multitude. I can’t help snapping pictures on my phone. It’s like being inside a wedding cake — round pillars of butterscotch marble topped with creamy rosettes, framing giant oil paintings of lessons and miracles. As more and more people crowd in, Cecilia and I are crushed beside a rack of gowns where altar boys are suiting up. It is touching to see their young faces full of self-importance, but my eye is caught by a single nun in white — older, head bowed, a point of stillness in the pressing crowd.

At last the Palio banner enters and the church erupts with shouts and drums.

Cecilia cries, “Touch it for luck. Go! Go!” Pushing toward the center aisle as the banner is slogged through, reaching with mad ardor like everybody else — shouldering past gray-haired ladies and wide-eyed children, all of us greedy for a touch of magic — I cannot stretch my fingers far enough to reach the cloth, but then I am an outsider; why should I share in their good fortune? The banner continues toward the altar, where it will be blessed by an archbishop dressed in red and white lace. I snap a photo of the nun, a quiet eddy in the current, fingers curled against her fuzzy chin, eyes peering through smudged glasses. I envy her tranquillity.

“Is it too late to become a nun?” I whisper to Cecilia. But Cecilia doesn’t answer, because she is no longer there.

SIXTEEN

Expelled from the church into the steamy square, the crush disperses slowly, contradaioli gathering in knots of animated conversation. It is easy to spot Sofri standing with a group of older men, also wearing Oca scarves, all of them smoking and talking at once.

Sofri says something that causes the others to nod with approving smiles.

“I told them you are my niece from America,” he says.

I feel a blush of pleasure. “I’m touched. Do I call you zio?” I say, dragging up the word for “uncle.” “Zio, sure.” Sofri grins. “Molto bène!”

“Where is Cecilia?” “I don’t know. You don’t see her?” We gaze over the crowd fanning out along the many streets leading out of the piazza. Tourists are still gathered, watching the spectacle of citizens in soft velvet hats and suede tunics chatting in front of motorbikes and smart cars.

“She was standing right next to me in church.” “Maybe she got a call and went outside to hear better,” Sofri says, pointing helpfully to his ear.

Looking more closely at the clusters of ladies (the men and women have separated themselves like iron filings on a magnet) I see nobody in an emerald suit with a mountain of auburn hair.

“Maybe the call was about Giovanni? Maybe something happened.” Sofri speed-dials the abbey and speaks to the nurse.

“The nurse says they did not call her. It is still possible Cecilia went home.” “Is Giovanni all right?” “He has a slight fever. The nurse is not concerned.” “How could Cecilia go home?” I wonder. “We have the car.” Nicosa, looking confident and at ease, is shaking hands with the archbishop, whose vibrant crimson and lace just knock you out in the sunshine. When His Excellency moves away, Sofri calls Nicosa over, asking questions in Italian, to which Nicosa shakes his head and shows his car keys, indicating that his wife could not have driven away. The square outside Santa Maria church is now empty. The tide has gone out, and there is no trace of Cecilia. Scanning the roofs and windows, I see only a Jack Russell terrier on a balcony, lustily pulling the leaves off a potted basil plant.

Squinting through the smoke of a cigarette, Nicosa tries her cell. No answer. He looks at his watch.

I ask, “What was the plan?” “Meet outside the church,” he replies impatiently. “Have lunch at the café. They are expecting us.” “She must already be there,” Sofri decides. “Or at the contrada headquarters, cooking up a masterpiece for tomorrow night. Wait until you see the food these women put out.” She wouldn’t be cooking, not in that suit.

“She’s punishing me for the unpleasantness in the car,” Nicosa says. “It’s all Ana’s fault.” He smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “I am kidding. We are friends, right?” “Of course.” “Mangiamo! Let’s eat!” I go with the men of Nicosa’s circle, trooping back to Oca territory, where all the stores are bustling. Frequently they stop en masse to shake hands and kiss their brethren, everyone reciting hopes for a good outcome in Monday’s race.

Finally we come to a small square with a church and a fountain — the fountain where Cecilia was baptized into the contrada for life. Unlike the flashy store in the Rome train station, the original Caffè Nicosa, where Nicosa’s father started out as a coffee roaster, is a hole-in-the-wall — chipped plaster peeling away from the brick, a potted tree by the entrance, no sign, no menu, just a framed picture from Italian Vogue showing Nicosa and Cecilia looking very glam in the courtyard of the abbey. I picture her inside with her jacket off, wearing just the sexy chemise she had on under the suit, chatting and holding a glass of wine, a shrewd look aimed at the beaded curtain at the door, sights fixed and ready for her husband’s entrance.

But the crowd has overflowed the street, and we can barely get inside. It is impossible to hear in the din of talk and laughter, or to move in any direction without the herculean effort of asking people to suck it in and step aside. “Mi scusi,” I keep breathing, wedging sideways, looking for Cecilia by randomly working my way in and out of the pack, blind as a worm. The place has that deep divine coffee smell, not just the brew of it, but the layered heart and soul of it, blackberry and chocolate. In view is the original roaster, an iron contraption of drums, ovens, pipes, and gauges painted bright red. They still roast here, every day, and the concentrated aroma rising off the tarry mountains of beans is as cool and seductive as tones off Coltrane’s sax.

Pinned against the bar, where oval platters of antipasto seem to appear and disappear every few seconds, I figure what the hell, I’m famished, and start loading up on bruschetta and crostini with porcini mushrooms or fresh mozzarella. A glass of vino rosso restores my equilibrium and good spirits, which are impossible to resist in this tiny room jammed with people high in a communal delirium, on the crest of what promises to be a long party.

Besides, nobody else is concerned about Cecilia’s absence. “I saw her a minute ago” or “Did you ask Nicoli?” are typical responses, when I can get the attention of someone I recognize. Then a quick smile and a back turned. Stymied and needing air, I push outside.

The afternoon sun is kinder, although the temperature is still sultry. The Fontebranda fountain is swarming with Oca teenagers. Some are singing rousing hymns like high school fight songs; many suck on baby pacifiers — a symbol that if Oca wins, everyone in the contrada will be considered to have been reborn, pure as a newborn baby.

Nicosa comes outside with a group of waiters who have been hired for the occasion, older men in black aprons, directing them to pick up the glasses and trash left in the street.

“We should call the hospital about Cecilia,” I say.

“Why?”

“Maybe she’s there, on an emergency.” “Don’t worry about Cecilia; she takes care of herself,” he says with irritation.

“Has she ever disappeared without telling anyone?” Nicosa gives me a look from the corner of his eye. “You don’t know everything about your sister. There are two sides to the story. Or maybe in the FBI, you don’t think so.” “We keep an open mind.” “Do you?”

“Yes, but why would she go anywhere — willingly — when she’s frantic about her son?” He takes a step backward and lights a cigarette, attempting a softer tone.

“You must understand, this business with Giovanni is not new. I once found him passed out in the shower from taking pills.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “The reason I may appear calm is that the drugs are locked up in his mother’s car, the bitch Englishwoman has left the country, and he is sick in bed — guarded by a policeman!” He gives a bitter laugh. “As safe as he’ll ever be. We’ll all sit down and discuss this … whenever your sister decides it is time to come home.”

SEVENTEEN

Palio, Day 3—SUNDAY, JULY 1, 12:00 P.M. When there is still no sign of Cecilia by noon the following day, I call Dennis Rizzio in Rome.

“Do me favor? Check and see if Cecilia Nicosa left the country in the last twenty-four hours.” “Why would she do that?” “Domestic dispute.”

“Where would she be likely to go?” “El Salvador.”

“She had a fight with her husband, so she goes to El Salvador?” Dennis asks rhetorically.

“She’s feeling a lot of pressure.” I explain the illicit delivery of drugs in the painting. “She also confessed that Nicosa is ‘under the thumb’ of the mafias.” “Meaning what?”

“In her mind he’s paying bribes, and she wants it to stop. It’s why she reached out to me. Nicosa exploded at her yesterday in the car, just before she disappeared.” “Women have been known to abandon their families when they can’t cope, although El Salvador is kind of far to go. And during Palio?” He thinks some more. “You really believe she’d leave her kid, who just got out of the hospital?” “Honestly, Dennis … no. I don’t believe that for a second.” “This worries me. It follows the recent pattern of the ‘disappeared’ in Italy. You have a high-profile lady married to someone with whom, let’s say, the mafias have a beef. They take the wife.” “For money?”

“Could be for money. Kidnaps for money are a national sport. You can usually negotiate your way out, but if it’s personal with Nicosa — if he got crossed-up with the clans — in that case, she never comes back.” I swallow hard. “What’s the plan?” “Sit tight. We don’t know enough. Don’t let it distract you; we still have a mission. I’ll 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 contrada dinners begin. Long tables snake down the street, end to end, like a river of gold. Candlelight plays over the joyful faces of the people of Oca. Loud talk and spontaneous singing echo through the canyons of the old city, where each territory has become a raucous block party. Just before darkness, bamboo barriers ten feet high were unrolled across the streets, sealing off the ancient boundaries of each neighborhood, keeping enemies and tourists out.

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. “Brava!”

In America we call it brainwashing.

“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.” “Esattamente. In this game of disappearances, they are winning. They deprive us of two weapons — evidence of the murder, and witnesses to the crime. Nobody will talk.” A man’s hand closes around my wrist. Nicosa was quick to follow me along the tables. Inspector Martini’s eyes rise inquisitively above my head.

“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?”

“For a while, yeah. Can’t hardly blame her in a way. All the dirty stuff with the mistress all over the press.” “The one who went white shotgun?” “Best not to say that too loudly,” Chris advises, taking an order from some drunks who have just come in, wearing the colors of Leocorno, the Unicorn, orange and white.

EIGHTEEN

There is nothing to do but stare at the fat man with the gun. Uno graso que repugna puerco, Cecilia thinks hatefully, retreating to the comfort of her native Spanish. She has been reduced to a shivering column of fear, while he is enormous. A brute wearing a U.S. basketball tunic. Deltoids matted with hair. Nothing in his pea brain except what he is going to eat next. The soldiers in El Salvador were the same. Hungry peasants — except this Italian thug is citified, swollen up with bad food and disease. The pistol all but disappears inside his fat mitt.

He loves that pistol. He never lets it go, sticking it with bravdo into the waistband of the ludicrous shiny red shorts, not at all worried about blowing off his balls — just one in a cascade of violent fantasies that obscure Cecilia’s thinking as she watches him chew through a PowerBar while lounging on an old desk chair set in the cavernous basement of the massive apartment building squatting over them.

Stinking water collects in a black lake that seems to go on to infinite darkness, stretching beneath blocks of slum housing called the Little City, somewhere in Calabria. She knows they are in the south because of the incomprehensible dialect they speak, hard for even the Italian-born to understand. Also, she knows that they are far away from the long drive in the ambulance in which she was abducted from Siena, after being chloroformed and carried from the church by the two combinatos like another fainting victim overcome by the heat.

Occasionally little boys will scamper past, eager to perform errands delegated by the guy in charge, whose nickname is “Fat Pasquale”—he’s just as fat as the gunman, but differentiated by a curly head of hair, bracelets, and tattoos. The boys, many under the age of eight, deliver drugs and act as lookouts. A literal underground crime network. They don’t seem to care what Cecilia sees, nor do they restrain her. The first endless block of time is passed on a plastic chair fifteen feet away from the goon in the red shorts, who occasionally tosses a bag of potato chips or a half-used bottle of water her way. She tries to keep her feet up on the chair because of the spiders.

Everyone understands how kidnappings work. They are in the news every day, like soccer scores. The mafias have two objectives: get the money and move on to the next victim. Getting the money is easy. Everybody knows the drill and everybody pays. It is simply a form of human pizzo. But the next one — and the next — are dependent on maintaining a level of intimidation that will encourage immediate payment by terrified relatives, with a detour around the police. So before they return the merchandise, to show that they are serious, they cut off a finger or an ear.

Cecilia spends a lot of time in the basement trying to remember what she knows about otoplasty. She has absurd conversations in her head, instructing the goon, when the time comes, how to cut off her ear. “Please swab three times with alcohol, and leave enough tissue for reconstructive surgery.” It is not easy to build a human ear from scratch, because it is such a complex three-dimensional form. Often cartilage is taken from a rib, but you need to be a craftsman. Luckily, because of the increase in kidnappings, both in Italy and Latin America, there are now world-class specialists in the field of ear replacement.

It is roasting down there, and the steaming bundle of pipes overhead radiates warmth like a heat lamp. Cecilia can feel her scalp start to burn, and tries to communicate that she wishes to move. The goon barks obscenities and warns her not to speak. But while he urinates into the black lake, she inches the chair out from under the heat, feeling such triumph she almost cries. Her heart beats with insane hope. If she can do this, she can fly right out of there and escape.

Then everything changes. Fat Pasquale comes out of the darkness to take her upstairs. She can barely walk after all those hours in the chair, but, carried away by euphoric delusion, she is only too happy to go. She never had any doubt Nicosa would pay quickly and naturally assumes she is being released.

NINETEEN

Palio, Day 4—MONDAY, JULY 2, 3:30 P.M. Another day has passed with the wretched slowness only possible in the heat of summer, in a Mediterranean country where time is measured in centuries. There has been no word from Cecilia in almost forty-eight hours, which, in America, would have already kicked off a missing person report. In Siena, during Palio, it gets you a shrug.

Last night’s fervor at the contrada dinner has given way to a mood of lugubrious devotion as the people of Oca force themselves to put on the brakes for the last religious moment before the race: the blessing of the horse by the priest.

A grim, quiet pool of humanity is gathering in front of Santa Caterina, the contrada church on Fontebranda. Nobody is smiling. The quality of tension matches the overcast skies and the oppressive layer of heat trapped close to the ground. Even the press photographers behave with deference, willing to wait with endless patience for the star of the show.

“Sofri, I have to talk to you.” We have found a spot near the front portal of the church. He looks very much the distinguished elder, wearing a beautifully tailored dark gray suit with a green Oca pocket silk, his long white hair artfully swept back, emphasizing the unapologetically noble nose.

“What is it, bella?” “Now I understand why you said my sister is like the Mangia bell tower. Why she is lonely in her marriage.” “Why is that?” He is looking straight ahead, chin lifted and eyes narrowed with the emotion of the day. Before us, in the lane of pinkish houses, the crowned white goose flies from every window. The street is narrow as a stream and choked with people, but little boys still find a way to jump across it, doorstep to doorstep.

“I want to be careful how I say this.” I check for eavesdroppers. There is nothing at our backs but the church. The group in front of us is speaking German. “I’ve been told that in the past, Cecilia has been a special friend of the police.” Sofri doesn’t answer.

“Do you know what I’m talking about?” “We may become separated after the blessing,” he replies, instead of addressing the question of Cecilia’s affair with the chief. “The mood will change, you’ll see. Everyone is meeting at my palazzo. There will be plenty to eat and drink. It is the best spot in Il Campo to watch the race.” “But Cecilia won’t be there. Will she?” “I don’t see why not.” “Sofri, she’s been gone forty-eight hours. We should notify the police.” “That’s up to her husband.” “Nicoli seems to think he can handle it without the police. I think he’s wrong. They need to be involved.” The crowd has begun to stir. We can hear the pattern of the approaching drum.

“Not today. Impossible. Look what’s going on here.” “It has to be today,” I hiss. “If she’s been kidnapped, every hour that goes by means less of a chance of finding her and now we’re in the red zone.” “Maybe in America. In Italy, these things take longer to become clear.” The church doors open, and the bespectacled priest who was at the party at the abbey appears, wearing plain white robes and an Oca scarf. He shakes hands with Sofri and then descends the steps, so that we are in a position to look over the top of his pomaded head, at the upturned faces expecting a sign; but the priest just rests in patience, hands folded.

“They are coming now,” Sofri says tersely. “The comparsa.” A cry goes up from the crowd and all heads turn toward the drummer and flag bearers appearing at the top of the street, followed by the duce and his men at arms, who are dressed in luxurious dark green velvet tunics embroidered with gold. Their tights are made of one red leg and one green, and there are lace cuffs at their wrists. I am impressed by the authenticity of the weapons — the lances, small swords at the belt, the large two-handed spadone carried by the duce with a blade that could chop off your head with one whack.

The alfieri spin the flags with confidence and finesse, just like Nicosa that night in the darkness of the abbey courtyard — the flags are rolled up, tossed into the air, caught behind the back. These two young men are the same age and height, and heartbreakingly good-looking. It would have been Giovanni, marching ahead of his proud father, who follows now with a group of other powerful contrada men, looking as beleaguered as the president of a country in wartime.

The soft white horse appears in the piebald medley of the human crowd. In place of a saddle, an Oca banner hangs over its back. It is wearing just a halter with a tufted pouf between the ears. The horse is calm and relaxed, led by a burly fellow in a beret with tobacco-colored skin and dark circles under his eyes, as if this awesome responsibility has kept him up for days. The horse is surrounded by its own bodyguards. The jockey, also protected by a security detail, is wearing an Oca tunic and jeans, considerably less dressed up than the horse. Clapping and cheering rise steadily from the crowd until the priest walks down the steps to where the horse has stopped, and then the people of Oca become so silent you can hear the clicking of camera shutters. The priest lays a palm on the forehead of the horse and speaks in Latin.

Sofri becomes utterly absorbed, transported by the prayer. It is hopeless trying to get his attention. The cell phone in my pocket vibrates silently. It is Dennis Rizzio, calling from Rome.

I text him back: Urgent?

Yes.

“See you at your apartment,” I whisper to Sofri and slip out before he can answer, weaving between the rapt parishioners and onto the street.

Dennis texts: Need to talk.

Not secure.

Where r u?

Oca district.

Via dei Rossi 63 in 15 minutes.

The GPS on my phone takes me to Via di Città, where I join a flood of humanity coursing down all eleven streets that lead into the Campo. I feel my heartbeat synching up with those caught in the race to claim a good spot near the track. There are three minutes left to get to the address on Via dei Rossi, where I assume Dennis Rizzio or one of his agents is waiting, and will evaporate if I’m not there.

Something has escalated. The Bureau must have gotten word of Cecilia. Jogging, I pass speed-walkers dragging their children, who curse the rudeness of Americans. Turning breathlessly onto Via dei Rossi, I almost run into a giant ice cream cone and realize with a start that Dennis’s directions have led to Kopa Kabana, described by him as having the best gelato in Italy.

Is this a joke? Number 63 is actually a few doors down — an open alcove without a door. It looks like a white-tiled Laundromat, until you enter, to the overwhelming stench of urine, and discover that it is a bank of red pay phones. Graffiti crawls up the walls, and the floor is strewn with trash. A phone in the far corner is ringing. I use a tissue to pick it up.

“Dennis? What the hell?” “Welcome to the monkey house.” “Smells like it.” “First off, we have no evidence that Cecilia has left Italy or crossed an international border. We checked airports, boats, and trains, but you and I know there are a million ways she could have been spirited out. Has there been a demand for ransom?” “Negative.”

“What’s the mood up there?” “It’s insane. Today is the Palio race.” “No shit. Are we still secure?” The phone bank remains deserted. Outside the open doorway, stragglers stream by at intervals. Dennis has chosen a side street that foreigners wouldn’t normally favor.

“Clear.”

“When we ran a search for your sister’s movements through Interpol, something else came up. There was a no-fly alert at the Glasgow airport, with a name attached that sounded familiar. On closer look, I realized why. The incident was concerning you.” “Me? I’ve never been to Glasgow.” “That’s not the point. The officer on the Interpol request was our friend Inspector Reilly of Scotland Yard.” “What was he looking for in Glasgow?” “He got an ID on some suspects in the attack. The ones who left the getaway car in Aberdeen. The Brits worked some local boys and got them to flip. The geniuses gave up a couple of Italian nationals who had been staying with their lowlife Sicilian cousins in Aberdeen. The names were put on Interpol, and the Italians were picked up at the Glasgow airport, attempting to leave Scotland, booked on a flight through Cairo to Rome.” “Sounds good. Do they need me to confirm the ID?” “Might. The suspects are being interrogated. Let’s go back to family matters,” Dennis says. “How has your brother-in-law reacted to his wife’s disappearance?” “Hostile and defensive. He thinks he can handle whatever happens himself.” Dennis clears his throat. “You’ve only been in Italy a short while, Ana. You haven’t had a chance to really get to know your sister. Not like we do.” “You ‘know’ my sister? What does that mean?” “When she wrote to the Bureau looking for you because of the inheritance money, we saw a connection between you two, and an opportunity.” “What kind of opportunity?” “For you to get close to her. SAC Galloway put you on official business so we could see where it went. See if you and your sister could find some common ground. Build up trust.” “Galloway was in on this?” “Take it easy. It’s for her own protection.” “Always is.”

I’m grinding a needle dropped by some crack addict with the heel of my shoe.

“And why would she need protection, Dennis?” “Cecilia Nicosa owns three private medical clinics in northern Italy and one in the south. Her husband’s money built the facilities.” “She told me that was the trade-off. Her clinics, his women.” “Italy has a good health-care system,” Dennis goes on, “but there’s always a need for private hospitals. Your sister’s clinics cater to the rich, but they also help poor people who need certain types of operations. They do good things, and she’s a hero, okay? But the only reason they stay open — and do what they do outside the system — is because the mafias have given Cecilia their blessing. The reason for that is simple: she pays them off.” “Cecilia has been paying protection bribes? Does Nicosa know?” “Everybody knows how it works.” “Dennis, you led me to believe my sister’s husband was the dirty one.” “He is still the focus of our investigation.” “That’s what Audrey Kuser, the legat, said in London. Nobody said Cecilia was part of it.” “Don’t worry; we’re not interested in criminal prosecution of your sister.” “Thank God,” I say sarcastically.

“Cecilia looked to us like a way into the mafias — a good citizen caught in the evil machine. We were hoping somewhere along the line we might be able to turn her. She was on our radar, but we had no idea you two were related, until she reached out to the Bureau to find you. Like I said, we saw the connection and took the opportunity.” “But you intentionally denied me the information that she’s involved with the mob. The whole damn family is involved with the mob! Don’t you think that’s a crucial thing for me to know?” “Your supervisors recommended against it.” “Why?”

“Because you are a perversely moral person, Ana. They were afraid knowing she was doing business with the bad guys would prejudice you against Cecilia and screw up the whole shebang.” Instead they let that piece of information hang, hoping I would fall in love with her and have a stake in the outcome. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how recruitment works. They get you hooked so they have something to manipulate.

“Right now your sister has been taken, in all likelihood kidnapped by the mafias because, like that dame Vincenzo who went missing, she stupidly fucked them over somehow.” “Which means Cecilia is no longer useful to you.” “We are committed to getting her back. She is the sister of an American national; it’s part of our mission.” “Also a convenient way to keep me close to Nicosa.” “I won’t lie. Absolutely it is. The wife being gone is scary stuff. He might let down his guard.” “Damn it, Dennis.” “I know,” he says with sympathy that is almost real. “It’s just the way things worked out.”

TWENTY

Kidnappings are a unique crime because they unfold in real time, simultaneously with the investigation. You never know which way they will go, but certain events are likely: if the suspects don’t want money, they’re in it for the torture and the kill. There has been no ransom demand, which bolsters Rizzio’s theory that Cecilia was taken by her own mafia bosses as retribution for some misstep. Which means they are not overly interested in keeping her alive.

Neither is the FBI legat, despite the “sister of an American national” speech. His agenda is still to use my proximity to Cecilia to get intel on the mafias. He’s got a hard-on for her disappearance because I am already established inside the abbey, where I can observe Nicosa make his moves, pick up on who he’s talking to. Rizzio sees this as an organized crime case first, a kidnapping second. Even if he believes Cecilia is already dead, playing it out could present “an opportunity.” Anything he can bring back on ’Ndrangheta will mean a bigger piece of the pie for the Bureau, and for him.

Leaving the phone bank from hell, I feel like a disembodied soul among the living, still trying to absorb the fact that earnest Cecilia has been paying protection bribes. The soft whoop of a siren parts the throng going to the Campo. A police car slowly plows along Via di Città, plainclothes detectives trotting on either side. Pedestrians attempt to move out of the way, people tripping over one another. Excited shopgirls are pouring from the stores.

A sophisticated-looking young woman wearing a black suit and pearls is watching coolly from the doorway of an expensive jeweler. I suspect that she speaks English.

“Who’s inside the car?” I ask.

She names an American movie star.

“Wow. You get some famous people during Palio.” “Oh, molti.” “Who is that with him?” Beside the actor I can just make out another gentleman. Older and leaner.

“That is our Commissario of police.” Without hesitation, I shoulder through the wall of humanity. It makes sense that Nicosa would not go for help to a police chief who had an affair with his wife. But what if the chief still has feelings for Cecilia? What if he would throw his weight behind an investigation?

In trying to get a look, I have drifted too close to the car.

“Get lost,” says one of the detectives in English, and I do, but not before snagging a close-up view of the Commissario. He looks like a tidy, underweight, middle-aged banker. The car turns into the Campo, where it is immediately swamped by military police. These soldiers are the real deal. They wear riot gear and carry automatic weapons. You’d need an armored personnel vehicle just to get their attention. I watch as the Commissario and his celebrity guest are absorbed into their ranks.

Somehow I have been spit into the dead center of Il Campo. The genius of the design is hard to comprehend. How did they do it? The shell shape and the slope of the brickwork is exactly right to hold a crowd. The walls of one palazzo adjoin the next in a crescent that overlooks the bowl of the Campo, which is quickly filling from all eleven entrances with spectators from all over the world. They didn’t have sixty thousand people in Siena in the fourteenth century. How did they know? Turning in circles, I take in the maroon-draped balconies, contradaioli waving colors in the stands, clusters of medics in aqua scrubs, seas of law-enforcement blue, all simultaneously present inside the Campo for this one electrifying moment.

The afternoon is sultry, but at least the sun is hidden by clouds. I can pick out Sofri’s windows. Behind them is that red-and-white-striped couch. Iced aperitifs. Moist slices of melon, bruschetta covered with olive paste, and, no doubt, coffee-flavored gelato. Here there is a popcorn stand. I am almost in the same spot as Cecilia was during the choosing of the horses.

I will never get to Sofri’s; I am stuck. The density of population is multiplying by the minute. I see a sliver of space right up against the rail and make for it. A big man moves six inches to the right, enough for me to slip in beside him. I say, “Grazie,” and he says, “You’re welcome.” He is American. In his forties and balding, with red artistic glasses, greasy slicked-back hair, and a graying goatee. At his feet is a plastic milk crate and a bag of cameras. Professional.

His name is Chuck. Chuck from Findlay, Ohio — a photographer, he says, for the Associated Press.

“How long have you been here?” “Since eight this morning,” he replies. “Hope you like the heat. This is going to take a while. You know what that scarf you’re wearing means?” he asks.

“It’s Oca, the Goose,” I answer wearily. “I like the colors.” We wait. Mountain ranges are formed and destroyed. There is no wind. The claws of the sun flash out from its striking place behind the clouds. I distract myself by observing the paramedic station. Every few minutes someone with heatstroke is brought in on a stretcher. Now there seems to be an asthma attack. I feel like I’ve known our boring neighbors all my life: an American family — Dave and Heather Bunyon, two kids, and a grandma playing cards — and the Japanese family with a fat toddler in a striped shirt who looks dazed with heat. Pairs of lovers are the only ones who seem to be having a good time.

Chuck offers his copy of the International Herald Tribune. We have already had the stranger-on-a-train conversation — that weird intimacy that springs up on a long journey, which this afternoon promises to be. He asks where I am staying, and I tell him about the abbey and the reliquary of the sainted hand. He knows the property well; he shot a wedding there, before Nicosa bought it, when it was briefly a hotel. He has lived in Milan eight years, and this is the second Palio he has covered for AP. He staked out this spot because it is at San Martino, the most hazardous curve in the track, where jockeys are thrown and horses crash. Padding has been placed against the walls. The pads look homemade and thin.

“How can those work?” I wonder.

“They don’t. They want to see blood. Italy is a brutal society.” He points to the paper. “See that?” “What happened?”

“The Rome police found a girl who was murdered. African immigrant, sixteen years old. The lips of her vagina were sewn together.” “Why?”

“She was a prostitute. Turf war,” the photographer explains. “Albanians and the Italian mafias, fighting over the sex trade.” I remember the willowy African woman wearing nothing but a bikini in the cornfield near the bus station. And the white man getting out of the car. No doubt she answered to the same type of criminal sociopaths who are holding Cecilia.

Seeing my reaction, Chuck says, “What’s the matter? Do you find the word vagina embarrassing? Some women say it’s a turn-on.” “What?”

His cell phone rings. I try to move away, but it is impossible. People who had claimed a space with blankets on the brick are now forced to stand. The Japanese toddler is picked up and placed over his father’s shoulder. The Bunyons pack up the card game and squeeze into a nervous cluster. My abdomen is being pushed up against the rail, as the remaining space is squeezed out by the pressure of spectators continuing to push inside. People are literally hanging from the palazzos on overloaded balconies and stone outcrops. When everyone is finally jammed together it will be impossible to even turn around. A bunch of humanity the size of a small city — upright as asparagus, packed together, and tied with a bow — for anyone intent on doing harm.

Chuck jumps up on the milk crate, swinging an enormous telephoto lens over my head. I duck as the motor drive fires.

Stepping down, he grins, very pleased with himself.

“I just got a tip worth five grand. My buddy called me to say there’s a famous actor in the VIP lounge.” “Where?”

“Up there, in the temporary police headquarters.” He points toward the palazzo to our left. We can see figures in the windows.

“Take a look,” the photographer offers, holding up the viewfinder.

I see the actor and the Commissario. Clear as day.

“I can introduce you later,” Chuck whispers moistly in my ear.

“Good-bye, Chuck.”

“Did I offend you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll never find a better spot!” he warns, cursing after me in Italian. Associated Press, my ass. I should have recognized a lowlife paparazzo.

The folks nearby are thrilled to step aside in order to suck up my space, not so the walls of anxious onlookers. Head down, shoulder in, there’s nothing for it but to charge, holding my position by the black and white flag of Istrice, the Porcupine, flying from the VIP palazzo.

The commanding officer of the military police is a hunk in his sixties, with broad shoulders and a thick gray mustache standing out against dark skin; with medals on his chest and on his beret, he looks like he just invaded Greece. He flicks me off like a fly, and none of the grim carabinieri, whose cold eyes sweep the crowd, pay attention to my garbled entreaties in Italian, so I sneak inside by following in the slipstream of a French TV crew, through heavy brass doors to a cavernous lobby bustling with cops and members of the press. We go up the staircase, where I recognize the light blue uniforms of Inspector Martini’s provincial police, who have taken over an apartment on the second story.

Paintings are still on the walls and vases on the mantel, but folding tables and chairs have replaced the furniture along with a minefield of wires supporting laptops. Everyone’s wearing ID tags and radios. I feel like the old guy in the park with his fingers curled around the chain link, watching the hot high school pitcher, longing to get back in the game that used to be his.

I’d better make a move before someone throws me out. The lumpy-bodied, melon-headed officer I met when Giovanni was in the hospital is sitting at a nearby terminal.

“Ciao,” I say heartily, like we’re old friends. He looks puzzled until I give the universal password: “CSI!” He breaks into a grin with those twisted teeth. “CSI!” “Dov’è Inspector Martini?” I ask, but before he can answer, she’s right there: a Madonna in a tight blue uniform with a white gun belt, cradling a carton of cigarettes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I take her aside and lower my voice.

“I have to see the Commissario.” “You can’t. The race is about to start.” “I need his help. My sister is still missing. There’s been no note. No demands. What you said last night is true. She’s been taken. I know Cecilia was once a special friend of the police—” Inspector Martini doesn’t flinch. Oh, God, is she sleeping with him, too?

“I’m hoping the Commissario will start an investigation—” A polished wooden door opens and the Commissario steps out of an adjoining room, along with two senior commanders with creased faces and crisp suits. The slender chief of police has flat brown eyes and hollow cheeks, like a cipher. Inspector Martini grabs my wrist and hauls me into his line of sight, talking rapidly in Italian. He shakes my hand and his long soft fingers linger. The five of us keep walking past the computer tables, aiming for the door. Inspector Martini has ten seconds to tell him my story, before they are faced with a coliseum’s worth of spectators pumped to the gills at the most dangerous horse race in the world. Does it register with him who was taken? That it’s Cecilia Nicosa?

He utters five words, like the crack of a whip, affirming what Martini has told him: “You are from the FBI?” “Yes, but that is not why I’m here. She’s my sister. They almost killed my nephew. The FBI’s hands are tied. The only one who can find her is you.” “It seems the Nicosas are a marked family.” From beneath the fixed hooded eyes comes a piercing stare. He gives me his card. “I promise we will do everything possible to locate Signora Nicosa,” he says, and the entourage, including Martini, disappears through the door.

By the start of the race, I have inched and squeezed back through the spectators to almost where I was. Now points of sunlight crown the roofs of the palazzos, a moment that must be significant to the Sienese celestial calendar, because a heightened alertness has come over the multitude, the way a flock of birds will settle down, the body language of one individual passed to the next. When the corona of the sun spikes at a certain angle, sixty thousand bodies become absolutely still in the golden bowl of the Campo.

A crack! explodes with a puff of white smoke from the mortaretto cannon, calling the horses to the starting area between two ropes. Now you can see the dirty business. The jockeys, riding bareback, wear the colors of their contrada, painted helmets, and white running shoes. Their long legs hang over the heaving ribs of the horses, which are fired up on amphetamines. Round and round go the colors, as the jockeys circle in an unruly pack, negotiating deals and making lightning-fast alliances, menacing one another with long whips made from the phalluses of calves. There is more than one false start. And then the rope is dropped — the race begins — and a roar comes up like the explosion of a wind-whipped forest fire.

They gallop full-out, three times around the track, ninety seconds total. With each turn there seems to be another horse that has lost its rider. A jockey is thrown right in front of me and trampled. The whole bunch skids sideways in front of the San Marino curve. Dust flies, the jockeys trade whip smacks and try to shove one another off, the horses stretch, manic spectators cannot be stopped from running across the track, something happens at the far end that I cannot see, and then a banner unfurls from a window in the Mangia Tower, declaring Leocorno, Unicorn, orange and white, to be the winner.

Hand-to-hand combat breaks out everywhere. The losing contrade rush their horses, pulling off their own jockeys and pummeling them in the holy dirt. Young men stampeding blindly in all directions push me, spin me. Faces are contorted with rage and tears and joy. People are ripping at their own shirts. Someone running by smacks a little girl across the face with a flailing arm. They’ve breached the rails and are rioting in the center of the Campo — men are hugging, men are throwing punches. Women clutch one another, sobbing and screaming, in a wild blur of anarchy. I see the knife. I see the Torre scarf in burgundy and blue. The lips drawn back over the teeth of the man who is charging us. He shoves the American grandmother aside, and she hits the ground. The arm holding the knife is raised. I block it. The blade slices my hand. He keeps on running. If there is a coordinated police response, I can’t find it in the pandemonium.