“I think you should always rethink your theories. If you don’t, they stop being theories. They become something else”-I waved my hands menacingly in the air-“they become dragons beneath your tower, letting no one in and no one out.”
He glanced at me, probably wondering why I continued to be so prickly this morning. “Did you know that here, the dragon is a symbol of virginity and protection?”
I looked away. “How ironic. In China, the dragon represents the bridegroom, the very enemy of virginity.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. The water in Fontebranda rippled quietly, projecting its lustrous beams onto the vaulted ceiling with the patient confidence of an immortal spirit, and for an instant, I almost felt I could be a poet. “So,” I said, shaking the idea before it took root, “do you believe it? That Fontebranda makes you pazzo?”
He looked down at the water. Our feet seemed submerged in liquid jade. Then he smiled languidly, as if he somehow knew that I did not really need an answer. For it was right there, reflected in his eyes, the glittering green promise of rapture.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t believe in miracles.”
His eyes dropped to my neck. “Then why do you wear that?”
I touched my hand to the crucifix. “Normally I don’t. Unlike you.” I nodded at his open shirt.
“You mean this-?” He fished out the object that was hanging around his neck by a leather string. “This is not a crucifix. I don’t need a crucifix to believe in miracles.”
I stared at the pendant. “You’re wearing a bullet?”
He smiled wryly. “I call it a love letter. The report called it ‘friendly fire.’ Very friendly. It stopped two centimeters from my heart.”
“Tough rib cage.”
“Tough partner. These bullets, they’re made to go through many people. This one went through someone else first.” He let it slide back down inside his shirt. “And if I hadn’t been in the hospital, I would have been blown to pieces. So, it looks like God knows where I am even if I’m not wearing a crucifix.”
I barely knew what to say. “When was this? Where was this?”
He leaned forward, feeling the water. “I told you. I went to the edge.”
I tried to catch his eyes, but couldn’t. “That’s it?”
“That’s it for now.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I believe in. I believe in science.”
His expression never changed, even as his eyes wandered over my face. “I think,” he said, “that you believe in more than that. Against your will. And that is why you are afraid. You are afraid of the pazzia.”
“Afraid?” I tried to laugh, “I am not the least bit-”
He interrupted me by scooping up a handful of water and holding it towards me. “If you don’t believe, then drink. You have nothing to lose.”
“Oh, come on!” I leaned away in disgust. “That stuff is full of bacteria!”
He shook the water from his hands. “People have been drinking it for hundreds of years.”
“And gone mad!”
“See?” He smiled. “You do believe.”
“Yes! I believe in microbes!”
“Have you ever seen a microbe?”
I glared at his teasing smile, annoyed that he had treed me so easily. “Honestly! Scientists see them all the time.”
“Santa Caterina saw Jesus,” said Alessandro, his eyes sparkling, “right up there in the sky, over Basilica di San Domenico. Who do you believe? Your scientist, or Santa Caterina, or both?”
When I did not answer, he cupped his hands, scooped up more water from the font, and drank a few mouthfuls. Then he offered the rest to me, but once again, I leaned away.
Alessandro shook his head in fake disappointment. “This is not the Giulietta I remember. What did they do to you in America?”
I snapped upright. “All right, give it here!”
By now, there was not much water left in his hands, but I slurped it up anyway, just to make a point. It did not even occur to me how intimate the gesture was, until I saw the look on his face.
“There is no escaping the pazzia now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You are a true Sienese.”
“A week ago,” I pointed out, squinting to get my bearings straight, “you told me to go home.”
Smiling at my frown, Alessandro reached out to touch my cheek. “And here you are.”
It took all my willpower not to lean into his hand. Despite my many excellent reasons for not trusting him-never mind flirting with him-all I could think of saying was, “Shakespeare wouldn’t like it.”
Not the least bit discouraged by my breathless dismissal, Alessandro ran a finger slowly across my cheek to pause at the corner of my mouth. “Shakespeare wouldn’t have to know.”
What I saw in his eyes was as strange to me as a foreign coast after endless nights on the ocean; behind the jungle foliage I could sense the presence of an unknown beast, some primordial creature waiting for me to come ashore. What he saw in mine I don’t know, but whatever it was, it made his hand drop.
“Why are you afraid of me?” he whispered. “Fammi capire. Make me understand.”
I hesitated. This had to be my chance. “I know nothing about you.”
“I’m right here.”
“Where”-I pointed at his chest and the bullet I knew was there-“did that happen?”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again and allowed me to see right into his weary soul. “Oh, you’ll love this. Iraq.”
With that one word, all my anger and suspicion was briefly buried under a mudslide of sympathy. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“No. Next question.”
It took me a moment to process the fact that-with remarkably little effort-I had come to learn Alessandro’s big secret, or at least one of them. However, it was highly unlikely that he would allow me to extract the rest as easily as that, especially the one to do with breaking into my room.
“Did you-” I began, but quickly lost my nerve. Then another angle occurred to me, and I started over, saying, “Are you in any way related to Luciano Salimbeni?”
Alessandro did a double take, clearly expecting something completely different. “Why? You think he killed Bruno Carrera?”
“It was my impression,” I said, speaking as calmly as I could, “that Luciano Salimbeni was dead. But maybe I was misinformed. Considering everything that has happened, and the possibility that he killed my parents, I believe I have a right to know.” I pulled first one foot, then the other out of the fountain. “You are a Salimbeni. Eva Maria is your godmother. Please tell me how it all hangs together.”
Seeing that I was serious, Alessandro groaned and ran both hands through his hair. “I don’t think-”
“Please.”
“All right!” He took a deep breath, possibly more angry with himself than with me. “I will explain.” He thought for quite a while, perhaps wondering where to start, then finally said, “Do you know Charlemagne?”
“Charlemagne?” I repeated, not sure I had heard him properly.
“Yes,” nodded Alessandro. “He was… very tall.”
Just then, my stomach growled, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since lunch the day before-not unless you consider a bottle of Chianti, a tub of marinated artichokes, and half a chocolate panforte dinner.
“How about,” I suggested, putting on my shoes, “you tell me the rest over coffee?”
IN THE CAMPO, preparations for the Palio were under way, and as we passed a heap of sand meant for the racetrack, Alessandro knelt down to pick up a handful as reverently as if it had been the finest saffron. “See?” He showed it to me. “La terra in piazza.”
“Let me guess; it means ‘this piazza is the center of the universe’?”
“Close. It means earth in the piazza. Soil.” He put some in my hand. “Here, feel it. Smell it. It means Palio.” As we walked towards the nearest café and sat down, he pointed out the workmen putting up padded barriers all around the Campo. “There is no world beyond the Palio barriers.”