Chapter 31 ending

"The day of the horse racing festival," said the American, "is also the day of emancipation." The German smiled. "The date of the horse racing festival was fixed later, and the retreat of the German army was a coincidence." "But she came back. Four hundred years later, she came back." "I believe so," said the German quietly. "Take care of the fighters like you took care of those who raped her." "yes." "And what about the mark on her hand? The hole the nail went through when it was nailed to the wooden door?"

"yes." The American tourist stared at the oak door. "Those stains are her blood?" "yes." "Oh my God," said the tourist.He thought for a moment, then asked, "So you're tending the garden? For her?" "I come here every summer. Sweep the yard, tend the roses. It's just a way of saying thank you to her. Maybe she knows, maybe she doesn't." "Today is the second day of July. Will she come again?" "Maybe it will come, maybe it won't. But there's one thing I can assure you, no man, woman, or child will die tonight in Siena."

"There's bound to be an expense," the visitor said, "and there's a cost to keeping it the way it is. If anything..." The German shrugged. "Not necessarily. There's a donation box on a stool by the wall for the orphans of Siena. I think she'd like it that way." The tourist was also generous among Americans.He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of banknotes.He turned to the donation box, pulled out six and stuffed them in. "Sir," he said to the German as he helped his wife up, "I'm leaving Italy soon and flying back to Kansas, USA. I'm going to run a farm and raise cattle. But I won't forget it, and I will never forget it in my life." Won't forget that I was in the yard where she died, and will always remember the story of Merciful Katerina as long as I live. Come on, sweetheart, let's go see the action, too."

They left the courtyard, turned into the alley, and walked towards the street that led to the distant noise of celebration.After a while a woman emerged from the depths of the shadow of the colonnade where she had been hiding. She also wears a washed-out denim top, her hair is braided in tight corn braids, and she wears a string of ethnic beads around her neck.She also has a guitar slung across her shoulder, a heavy backpack dangling in her right hand, and her own handbag in her left. She stood beside the man, took out a joint from her breast pocket, lit it, took a deep drag, and handed it to him.

"How much did he keep?" she asked. "Five hundred dollars," the man said.He no longer speaks with a German accent, but with a West Woodstock accent.He emptied the wooden box of dollars and stuffed the money into his shirt pocket. "It's a great story," said his partner, "I like your style of storytelling." "It's alright," said the hippie humbly, picking up his rucksack to leave, "and you know what? They always take it for granted."