Chapter 27 Siena, 1975

The sun hung like a ball of fire in the sky, pouring red heat on the ancient walled city in Tuscany, and on its clusters of roofs and medieval tiles.Some of these tiles were pink in the hot sun, but most of them turned reddish brown or off-white in the long sun, shimmering in the hot air. The projecting gutters cast night-like shadows over the upper windows, but where the sun could reach the plastered walls and old bricks reflected a pale heat.The wooden window sills were cracked and the paint was peeling.Deep in the narrow cobbled alleys of the old town, there are some shady respites, and the occasional cat that just wants to nap looking for a place to escape the heat, but the local residents are nowhere to be seen, because it is the day of the horse racing festival. .

Deep in one of these alleys, in a maze of cobblestone paths not much wider than a man's shoulder, an American tourist hurried along, his face red as beef.Sweat trickled down and soaked his short-sleeved cotton shirt, and his light jacket felt like a blanket slung over his shoulders.Behind him, his wife staggered because her flat sandals didn't fit her feet well. They had tried to book a hotel in the city, but they had booked too late for the season, and finally managed to secure a room at Casole del Sa.The rented car stopped running because the engine overheated, and they found a parking lot outside the city walls and parked there.Now, from the Auville Gate they hurried to their destination.

It didn't take long for them to lose their way in these alleys with a history of more than 500 years, staggering on the hot pebbles, their feet seemed to be on fire.From time to time, the cowboy from Kansas pricked up his ears in the direction of the crowd, trying to drive there.His well-dressed wife fanned herself with a guide book, thinking only of catching up with her husband. "Wait for me," she called.Now they were crossing yet another narrow alley between two houses in the city that had seen them swagger into town, but which were old even then. "Hurry up, honey," he said over his shoulder, "we're going to miss the parade."

He is right.A quarter of a mile away, the assembled crowd was trying to push their way to get a first look at the parade.Extras, dressed in the costumes of the seventeen major guilds of Siena that once ruled and managed the city, are kicking off a medieval costume parade.According to tradition, ten of the seventeen parishes will have a horse race on that day, and the winning side will win a pennant of honor for their hall.This is the Jockey Club.First, though, is the parade. In his hotel room the night before, the American had read to his wife the contents of the tourist brochure. "The parish or city of Siena was founded between the end of the twelfth century and the beginning of the thirteenth century," he read aloud.

"That was before Columbus," she objected, as if before the great Christopher Columbus sailed from Paros and sailed westward down the Rio Tinto, before he was forgotten or glorified, nothing could have happened. It didn't happen. "Yes. That was in 1492. It was three hundred years before Columbus. Here it says that there were forty-two parishes at the beginning, and it was reduced to twenty-three after three hundred years, and then in 1675. There were only seventeen left. We'll see the parade tomorrow." Out of sight, the first hundreds of brightly dressed drummers, musicians and standard-bearers in the parade procession began to enter the field square.The sixteen palaces around the square were covered with banners, colorful flags and signs, the windows and balconies were crowded with wealthy people, and 40,000 people were gathered in the circle of the track to cheer enthusiastically.

"Come on, dear," he called back.The noise ahead grew louder. "We came all the way to see this. I can finally see the tower." Indeed, the spiers of the towers of Mangia had appeared above the roofs ahead.At this point, she tripped and twisted her ankle from the pebbles and shoes.She yelped, then sat down on the stone pavement.Her husband turned and ran towards her. "Ouch, honey, what's the matter with you?" He leaned over her, frowning in concern.She clutches one ankle. "I might have sprained my ankle," she said, and began to cry.The day started off well, but now everything is going wrong.

Her husband looked up and down the alley, but the old wooden doors were all locked and barred.An archway in a high wall a few yards away closed the alley on one side.The sun shines in through the door opening, and there seems to be an open space there. "I'll take you there and see if you can find a place to sit down," he said. He pulled her up from the cobblestones and helped her limping toward the archway.It turned out that there was a yard paved with stone slabs, and there were pots of roses in it.Thankfully, there is also a stone bench in the shade by the wall.The American helped his wife to the cool stone bench, and she sat down with a sigh of relief.

In the distance, while the tail of the parade was still there, the people leading the battle had already entered the field square, and the citizens and judges were already evaluating the standard bearers, their manners and the standard of flag dancing.In the subsequent horse races, no matter who wins, the parish team with the best equipment will receive the "Masgalano" - a finely carved silver plate.This prize is important, and everyone in the audience knows it.The American tourist bent over his wife's ankle. "Do you need my help?" came a calm voice.Startled, the American turned away.The stranger stood above him with his back to the sun.The tourist stands up straight.The man was tall and slender, with a calm face.They were about the same age, fifty-five or sixteen, but the stranger's hair was gray.In faded canvas slacks and a denim shirt, he looked like a bum, or a hippie who wasn't young anymore.He spoke English well, but with an accent, maybe Italian.

"I'm not sure." The American said suspiciously. "Your wife fell and hurt her ankle?" "yes." The stranger knelt on the flagstones of the courtyard, took off his wife's sandals, and gently massaged the injured ankle.His fingers are gentle and skillful.The American watched from the sidelines, ready to step up and protect his wife if necessary. "The ankle isn't broken, but I'm afraid it's sprained," said the man. "How do you know?" the husband asked. "I do know," said the man. "Really? Who are you?"

"I'm a gardener." "The gardener? Here?" "I grow roses, I clean the yard, I keep it clean." "But it's horse racing today. Don't you hear?" "I hear you. The wound needs to be bandaged. I have a clean T-shirt that can be torn into strips. And cold water to keep it from swelling." "What are you still doing here during the horse racing festival?" "I never watch horse races." "Why? Everyone went to see it." "Because it's today. The second of July." "Is this day so special?"

"It's also Liberation Day." "what?" "Thirty-one years ago today, on the second day of July 1944, Siena was liberated from German occupation. And there was something else happening here, in this courtyard , an important thing. I believe it is a miracle. I will fetch water." The Americans were taken aback.The American from Topeka, Kansas, was a Catholic: He said Mass and confession, and he believed in miracles — those sanctioned by the bishop of Rome.His summer trip to Italy was mainly to Rome, and Siena was added to the itinerary later.He surveyed the empty courtyard. The yard measured thirty yards by twenty yards, and was surrounded on two sides by high walls, at least twelve feet high, and in one of the walls there was a doorway, and two open doors, through which he had entered.The walls on the other two sides were even higher, more than fifty feet, and except for some cracks, the walls were blank, and the walls had a roof, which was the outer wall of a large and ancient building.At the far end of the courtyard, embedded in the wall of the building, was another door.It is not made of planks, but is bolted to each other by wooden beams to prevent outsiders from attacking.The wooden door is closed.The wood of the door was as old as the city itself, and, save for a few stains, it had been bleached from years of exposure to the sun. On one side of the courtyard, running from one end to the other, ran a long colonnade, with a pitched roof supported by a row of stone columns, forming a deep and cool shelter under the eaves.At this time, the gardener brought a strip of cloth and a glass of water. He knelt down again, firmly tied the cloth bandage on the injured ankle, and poured water on it to soak the cloth bandage as a cold compress.The American wife breathed a sigh of relief. "Can you still go to the Jockey Club?" the husband asked. The wife stood up and tried to walk a few steps, her face twisted into a ball immediately.Ankle still hurts. "What do you think?" the tourist asked the gardener.The other shrugged. "These alleys are uneven, so many people are crowded together, and it's very noisy. Also, without ladders and high platforms, you can't see anything. But the celebration will last all night, and you can watch it in the open air. , on every street. Or, there is a horse race in August. Can you wait till then?" "No. I have cattle. I must go home next week." "Oh. So... your wife can walk now, but slowly." "Shall we wait, honey?" she asked. The tourist nods.He looked around the yard. "What miracle? I don't see any temple." "There's no temple here. There's no saint. Not yet. But someday there will be, I hope." "So, thirty-one years ago today, what happened here?"

---

Notes: