The Last Promise (19 page)

She set down her brush and began putting away her paints. “Washing and ironing. And you?”

“I was thinking of going to Arezzo for the day. It’s the jousting of the Saracen. You’ve probably seen it a dozen times already.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t. It’s one of those things you intend to see but never get around to. Alessio asks every year if we can go. I guess he forgot this year.”

“If you want, we could go together. I hate going to places alone with big crowds. It makes me feel like a ghost.”

“What time does it start?”

“The jousting starts around four or five, but there are festivities all day long. I was planning to leave around noon.”

“I need to call Maurizio first to see if it’s all right, or if he’s coming home. Can I let you know in the morning?”

“He’s welcome to come along.”

She smiled but said nothing. “I’ll let you know.”

She stood up; then they descended the stairs together. At the doorway she kissed his cheek. “That’s for being so good to my son.”

As simple as the kiss was, it warmed him. “It’s not hard. I’ll wait to hear from you,” he said, his voice light with hope. “I’m getting up at sunrise to run so don’t worry about calling too early.”

“All right. Good night, Ross.”

“Good night, Eliana.”

 

Maurizio was lying in bed when his cell phone rang. He reached over and lifted it from the hotel night-stand.
“Pronto.”

“Hi, Maurizio? It’s me.”

He hesitated a moment. “Eliana? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. How are things?”

“Where are you?”

“Leeds.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t ever keep up with you.” There was a silent pause. “The last time we talked you said you might be home tomorrow.”

“No, I’m sorry, I need to be in Venice tomorrow. I won’t be back until Wednesday.”

“It’s okay. I was just thinking of taking Alessio to Arezzo for the festival tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he’ll like that.”

“Ross Story invited us to go with him.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Story. Our new tenant.”

“Oh, yes. Well, I will not be back until Wednesday, maybe even Thursday.”

“Then I guess we’ll go.”

“Great. Have a good time.
Buona notte.
”

Maurizio hung up the phone and rolled again to his back.

“Chi era?” Who was that?
The woman stepped from the bathroom. Her copper-red hair was wet and she was wrapped in a bath towel.

“My wife.”

A thin smile lifted her cheeks.
“Sei birichino.” You are a bad boy.

Maurizio motioned her over and she came back to the bed.

—Italian Proverb

—Ross Story’s diary

 

 

R
oss’s phone rang about eight. He was waiting for Eliana’s call.
“Pronto.”

“Ross, this is Eliana.”

“
Ciao.
Did I wake you?”

“No, I’ve already been out running.”

“If the invitation is still open we’d like to go with you today.”

“Great, I was hoping you would.”

“I was thinking I could make a picnic supper.”

“You don’t need to go to that much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. There’s a lovely picnic site just past Incisa.”

“What can I bring?”

“Just yourself. When do you think we should leave?”

“Around noon.”

“We’ll come over.
Ciao.
”

Eliana and Alessio knocked on Ross’s door shortly before noon. Eliana held a large wicker picnic basket in front of her with both hands. It was a bright day and Eliana wore sleek, Italian sunglasses and a crimson tank top with matching shorts, vibrant against her bronze skin. She wore sandals that laced up past her ankles. She had clearly inherited the fashion sense of the Italians. She always looked different whenever he saw her. She was like a work of art; each time he saw something new in her—each time he saw the same painting in a different way, a perspective that belonged only to him.

“Hi, Alessio.”

“Hi, Mr. Story.”

Alessio wore denim shorts that fell past his knees and a gray T-shirt with the word
CIAO
in large black letters across the front. He also wore a small backpack, though his most notable accessory was the large grin on his face.

“Can we bring the soccer ball?”

Ross smiled at Eliana. “Of course,” he said, stepping forward to help her. “Here, let me take that.” He lifted the basket from her.

“Thank you. It’s a little heavy.”

They walked outside the courtyard; then Eliana opened the car’s trunk for Ross. He set the basket inside and she handed him her car keys. Ross opened her door while Alessio threw his backpack onto the backseat of the car and followed it in. As soon as they were on the freeway, Alessio began drawing pictures.

Ross glanced up at him in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to be an artist like your mom?” Ross asked.

“Yep,” he said without looking up.

Eliana smiled.

Forty-five minutes later they exited the freeway and headed east toward Arezzo, passing several small hamlets along the way. It was clear they were headed in the right direction, as colorful flags from the different competing quarters hung from the buildings and street corners of the cities they passed.

The weather was beautiful, tranquil blue skies with a few wisps of clouds, and the city was crowded for the event. Arezzo is an ancient city of stone, cold and dour, built as if its primary hope was to keep people out. A modern writer called the city nothing less than a dignified prison.

The closest parking they could find was a half mile from the square, and so Ross put Alessio on his shoulders and they followed the crowds into the city, which had been closed off to all but police cars and foot traffic. The narrow cobble roads, flanked on both sides by stone and stucco buildings, inclined steadily, feeding into the larger roads like tributaries of a river, all leading to and away from the main square—Piazza Grande.

The sounds of drums and trumpets could be heard around them, though in the echo of the stone corridors it was difficult to tell whether they were coming or going. The roads were lined with vendors selling wares brought especially for the day: roast pork or tripe sandwiches, wine and beer, miniature replicas of the Saracen, and scarves and flags representing the individual teams of the competing quarters.

The crowds were equally composed of natives and tourists, along with police and a sampling of those dressed in colorful Renaissance costume of the sixteenth century, when the tournament began.

The tournament has followed the same routine for more than three centuries. It begins with the herald’s proclamation of the event in each corner of the city. This is followed by the parading of the competing teams from parish to parish for the priests’ blessings of their weapons, before meeting in the main square for the culminating event: the jousting competition between the knights.

They arrived in time to see the last of the herald’s proclamations. They stopped at a pizzeria for lunch then wandered around the center of the city, carried along in the flow of the masses, taking in the revelry. They came upon one of the teams as they arrived at a parish church for the blessing of their weapons. They followed the troop on to the cathedral square, where their weapons received the final blessing of the day by the bishop.

As the cathedral bells rang, the crowds moved steadily toward the Piazza Grande. When Ross, Eliana and Alessio arrived, the square was already crowded nearly to capacity, as were all the surrounding buildings. People leaned from windows or gathered on balconies, and flags hung from nearly every window. Flowers, vibrant costumes and large bouquets of balloons were set in bright antithesis to the dull stone of the square.

Running diagonally across the stone square was a thick strip of dirt that had been brought in for the event. The strip was about six yards wide and led to the Saracen—the focal point and namesake of the tournament. The Saracen was a wooden figurine of a bearded Saracen soldier, the ancient enemy of Arezzo.

Eliana spotted a vacant spot on a stone ledge next to the bleachers and they sat down. A half hour later the first of the knights arrived, carrying their lances aloft. They were followed by the foot soldiers, dressed in armor, carrying shields and spears or crossbows. A page, a young boy about Alessio’s age, came next on foot. He was wearing a beautiful purple velvet costume and a hat with feather quills. Then the herald they had seen earlier arrived, on horseback, led by his servant. He stopped in the center of the square and held out a large scroll that he read from, proclaiming the opening of the tournament. He was followed by the
sbandieratori
, the flag bearers. The flag show lasted the longest of the exhibitions. Flags flew across the square, spun, leapt and flashed like fire, amid the spectacular acrobatics of the bearers. During the performance Alessio pointed heavenward. “Look,” he said. Hundreds of birds were circling immediately above the square, spectators to the proceedings.

The square, already loud with the crowd’s applause and shouts, was suddenly shaken by the blare of trumpets, then the thunder of drums. The band marched into the square, the corps fully dressed in costumes as colorful as a royal flush. The trumpets were more than four feet in length, and tied to each of the silver, fluted instruments was a flag. The music suddenly stopped and the master and vice-master of the field arrived, escorted in on horseback. They spoke briefly to the crowd about the history of the event, then raised their scepters, the sign for the tournament to commence.

When they were done, four men, each in different costume and carrying a lance, stood before the Saracen dummy. They each tested their lance against the Saracen’s shield.

“Who are they?” Eliana asked.

“They’re the captains of the teams. They’re checking the Saracen to make sure that it spins freely.” Ross could tell from her expression that she didn’t understand. “The Saracen is mounted to a pivot. When the knights hit the shield of the Saracen with their lances, the Saracen spins around. Part of their objective is to not get hit by the Saracen’s mace as it swings around.”

“So that’s what he’s holding in his other hand.”

Ross nodded. “In ancient days the balls used to have sharp spikes so you could actually see if the knight got hit. Now they’re just made of leather and judges do the scoring. Much less exciting.”

“Cool,” said Alessio.

Eliana shook her head. “You men.”

Before the tournament began, the knights lined up flank to flank, the horses and knights wearing matching ceremonial costumes, the effulgent colors of their quarters’ flags. The horses were adorned in blankets and head masks that matched their riders’ outfits. The knights wore uniforms with satin capes and tall, elaborate helmets—some mounted with figurines of saints or animals. Their lances were striped like large candy canes and held aloft like flagpoles—the flag of their quarter attached to the tip.

“Who do you think is going to win?” Ross asked Alessio.

Alessio pointed toward one of the knights. “Him.”

“The blue guy?”

“Yeah.”

“I think the red-and-green man will win,” said Eliana.

“Why?”

“Women’s intuition.”

“Really?”

“That and because his costume is the prettiest. It’s kind of Christmassy.”

“Christmassy? Is that English?”

She playfully hit him. “Who do you think will win then?”

“I’m with Alessio, I think the blue guy.”

“Why him?”

“Because he looks
crudele.
”

“And cruel people win?”

“In wrestling matches and horse jousting tournaments cruel usually wins.”

“Ten thousand lire says Christmassy does better than
crudele
.”

He shook her hand. “You’re on.”

The first horse trotted to the end of the dirt trail as the crowd hushed in anticipation. The rider carefully eyed the Saracen, balancing his lance in his hand and beneath his arm while his horse strained at the bit, moving impatiently beneath him.

Then the knight leaned forward and shouted and the horse galloped toward the Saracen, the animal’s legs and head flailing wildly. The knight absorbed his mount’s motion with his legs while the rest of his body remained perfectly still, his eyes and lance focused on the target mounted to the Saracen’s shield. When the lance struck, the crowd erupted. The Saracen spun around, his mace narrowly missing the knight.