April Smith - White Shotgun

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.”

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.