The Towers of Monteriggioni

4.12.07
Looking out the window of the turbo prop we chartered from Rome to the small airport outside of Siena, we can see the red tile roofs of little Tuscan towns fly by. The wineries and red soil that make the area so famous stand out against the deep spring green of the Cyprus trees and hills of the Val de Chiana, the noise of the engines slowing as we approach the airport and land.
Terrafirma, terranova, new earth. We are here, starting something new. We walk down the few steps of the plane’s door. This is our first time here together, together to consummate what should be a long partnership, leaving the lavish ceremony in Manhattan far behind.
The car drives us down the winding roads, you looking out at the villages we pass, red roofs, red earth, desire. The towns have funny names: Poggibonsi, you say reminds you of a fat cat, Rosia, more red, Chuisdino, of closing. We arrive in Sovicille. Our lodging, Borgo Pretale, stands high on one of these rolling hills, a cluster of buildings constructed in the eleventh century as an outpost for traders of fur. No other human establishment is in sight, only these rough, stone buildings, the hills, the earth, you and me.
We check in, noticing several bows placed outside the reception-building door, set out for the archery range down bellow. The maître d'hôtel welcomes us and shows us up to our villa, situated highest on the complex, saying that our baggage would arrive shortly. He takes our passports for safekeeping.
Getting settled in, we admire the view from our terrace, nothingness spread out in front of us, all to be explored. A knock comes and I find our luggage placed there, a ragged looking man briskly walking away in some tweed blazer not of the hotel.
“That’s odd,” I say turning to you, “the bellman didn’t even wait for a tip.”
“Silly Italians, must not be their custom,” you reply. You are new to world travel.
I notice the front pocket of my attaché has been opened and the travel documents seem a bit askew but think nothing of it. I suppose they might have needed to look at our names again to assure the luggage was delivered to the right villa. We lay down, you being jetlagged from the long journey and quickly fall asleep, waking later to dusk over the rolling hills, the sky ablaze.

San Gimignano. 4.13.07
Walking the streets of this ancient city known for its many towers, you say that you feel transported back to the medieval age. The streets are calm; few tourists are about this week after the spring break rush has passed. You decide that it would be funny to go see the Museo della Tortura where they display all the sadistic implements of ages past. It is a dark museum, black walls giving way to lighted display cases.
We exit back out into the blinding sun of midday and before we fully regain our vision this funny character confronts us, screaming overtures in incomprehensible Italian. Letting my eyes adjust I look down, seeing his shoes, a tattered and scuffed pair of red loafers. His pants too are those of a vagabond, his shirttail dangling suggestively out of his fly. We pass and he screams, “Figli d’butana,” cursing our lack of generosity.
You ask, “What was that about?”
“Just some poor vagabond wanting some money. He called us whores children,” I reply.
“Silly Italians,” you say.
We keep walking. I can’t help but feel like I’ve seen that man before. His gate as he walks off looks oddly familiar but I can’t quite place it. I neglect to mention this to you, knowing how you get flustered about the homeless sometimes.
On the drive home we pass what looks to be an old fortification. Monteriggioni, the sign reads. I remark to you that Dante used this town in his Inferno to describe the immensity of the giants that rule one of hell’s circles. As we pass, the towers do give off this presence, looming high above us.
Later that night back at the Borgo you decide that you’d like to try out those bows we saw the day previous, so we make our way down the hill. I show you the general method, having been forced into such bourgeois pastimes as a child. On your third quiver, the bowstring grazes your bare white arm in its recoil back to its natural state, leaving a small wound, blood trickling out, a few drops turning the soil from red to brown.
You swear off archery for life, saying you’re a hopeless student and far too delicate. We retire back to the villa. Back in the bedroom a photo of our wedding party has been set up next to the bed.
“I didn’t know you brought this along honey, how nice” I say to you as you tend to your lesion.
“I didn’t, maybe Robert sent it along to the hotel staff. You know how sentimental he is.”
“I suppose the maid could have placed it here”
“Silly Italians.”

Sienna 4.15.07
After a day of rest at the hotel, we decide to head out again to explore more of the countryside. We set our sights on Siena, the largest city other than Florence in the region and where we initially came into a few days earlier. From our days of seclusion it feels like an age has passed since we touched down.
We get a later start than usual, arriving in Piazza del Campo, the city’s main square just in time for lunch. “It is such a lovely afternoon, Michael. We should eat al fresco,” you say, liking to use the few Italian words you’ve picked up on the trip. And so we do. The square is full of students, Siena being a university town. Older couples taking their passegiatta after the midday repast. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a man festooned in rumpled tweed with one of those cameras they used to use in the middle of the previous century. Before I turn around, he’s gone.
You want to explore the city, get lost, you say. I see no harm. We have nowhere important to be and a stroll would do me well after the heavy meal I just ingested. We start off down the main streets, looking into shop windows, watching the children playing in the spring air, alive.
Dropping my hand, you scurry down a narrow alley, turning around halfway down and saying, “Oh come Michael, let us not be so boring as to stick to where the cobbles are so worn.” I oblige, surprised that you’re so eager to step off of the touristic route, not being much of a traveler. We get ourselves lost in Siena’s maze, sitting down finally in a tiny square with this intricate fountain of some mythological man, pierced through the chest from the back by a saber to which no owner is visible, water flowing down his body and careening over the pedestal on which he stands.
“What a peculiar sight,” you exclaim.
“Yes well the classicists were always a bit twisted,” I reply.
“Silly Italians”
Suddenly, the vagabond from San Gimignano appears out of one of the alleys leading into the square. We are alone. He’s wearing the same red shoes, his shirttail still sticking out awkwardly. “We should go,” I say, “Now,” rushing you off without trying to cause alarm. We walk briskly down another alley. I can’t tell if our footsteps are just echoing or if the man is pursuing us. All I do know is that I remember where I saw his gait before. He was the bellman. He was the man in the square with the camera. His tweed, his pants, his shoes, always the same, yet I never put it together.
I try to act calm. I don’t tell you why we’re rushing off, just move you on. The alleyways are endless. They widen and I think we’ve reached a main road and then they become even narrower once again. Footsteps.
We finally reach a main road. I see some carabinieri and rush over to them, telling you that I’m simply asking for directions to the car park. In broken Italian I try and explain what is going on, not wanting to speak English, not wanting you to know. They look at me like I’m crazy and tell me to go back to America. I pull you onward.
“Michael if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on I’m not moving another inch,” you scream.
“Just come to the car,” I say calmly, “I need, we need, to go back to the villa.”
Annoyed, but still mildly clueless as to what I think is going on, you follow. We reach the car. For a moment I pause to catch my breath. We get in and I start the engine.
“Ok you really need to tell me what is going on because look at what’s on the windshield,” you say pointing with a shaking hand. I look up and see a picture of us taken on the first day as we napped. I grab it off of the glass while putting the car in gear and the wheels of the little Alfa Romeo squeal as we speed out of the lot.
You’re crying. I walk with you up to the villa, telling you to lock the door and pack and I’ll go tell the maître d' that we are leaving this instant. You say that you want me to stay, that we’ll pack up our things together. You’re confused. You don’t want to be alone. I agree, deciding that it’s probably best for us not to split up.
We hurry upstairs to the bedroom. I enter first and stop dead in my tracks. The whole room is littered with photos, black and whites of us, nearly every minute since we’ve been here: getting off the plane, archery, dinners, even racing back just now from Siena. Our whole trip has been catalogued. You stand next to me, mouth agape. Neither one of us knows what to say. I break the silence. Now I have to tell you everything, all that I’ve come to realize.
I don’t know why we’ve been followed, singled out. We have. I don’t know where to turn. Everywhere is steeped in dread. As I finish speaking you lose it. Mascara runs down your face. “Hold me…” is all you can manage to say between sobs of terror and as I do the bedroom door creeks audibly and I look up.
Red, tattered, scuffed loafers, shirttail hanging suggestively out of his fly, tweed jacket, and camera. All there, all evidence. “Figli d’butana,” he says slowly, a smirk alluding to what is to come.
Repose.