The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,71
move here for all these festivals,” Jack said. “We certainly don’t have anything approaching this back home. What’s the prize for the winners?”
“The bravio, a banner painted with the image of San Giovanni Decollato, John the Baptist, Montepulciano’s patron saint.”
“You mean they do all that for a piece of cloth!” Jack said.
“Hey, buddy, it’s a holy article and they’re bringing honor to their contrada.” Len was bristling. The subject was obviously a touchy one, close to his heart. “That’s exactly it. Honor,” Francesca said hastily.
Sally had been writing down what they had eaten for lunch. She was clearly adding the Bravio information. “What’s ‘decollato’ mean?”
“I know that one,” Tom said. “ ‘Beheaded,’ possibly because Salome demanded it on a silver platter and her father, Herod, was a parent who needed to learn how to say no. Anyway, ‘decollation’ is another word for ‘decapitation.’ ”
Faith and Francesca looked at one another. There had been quite enough decollations for one day. Both started folding the cloths, and soon the group returned to the van to stow the remnants of the picnic before starting up the steep main street. It had gotten considerably hotter, and Faith was glad she had both her sunglasses and visor.
They hadn’t progressed very far before she heard the hour strike and, looking up, saw a life-size metal figure of Pulcinella strike a bell on a tall clock tower. Pulcinella, the commedia dell’arte character, crafty, mean, even vicious, dressed in white with a black mask—the representation of life and death. Was everything today going to be fraught with meaning?
Gianni pointed upward. “This is the medieval Torre di Pulcinella. You will see many articles for sale reproducing this not so very nice fellow all over Montepulciano.”
They lost the Culvers to a shop with a display of handbags with vintage Vespa logos in the window. Others fanned out into the steep side streets.
Terry and Sky were determinedly staying on course, making their way straight to the Palazzo Comunale, the town hall, and the Piazza Grande, where the Twilight movie had been filmed. Faith wanted to start there, too, in the duomo, and Francesca had mentioned a shop selling pottery near it that was her favorite.
It didn’t take long to reach the piazza, and it was delightfully cool inside the cathedral. Faith and Tom sat in silence and then took time to look at the artwork. A large Della Robbia baptismal font drew Faith’s eye. She had always loved the deep blue and white glaze of the master’s ceramic bas-reliefs, but it was the bright green, yellow, and orange fruit and flowers encircling the pieces that made them her favorite.
“Let’s go find that pottery shop,” she said softly. If she kept to one place and didn’t spend too long looking, she could get him to shop, an activity he normally avoided like the plague, filling sartorial needs from L.L.Bean and clerical sources online and leaving all other purchases to her. When it came time for her birthday, anniversary, and Christmas, he went with Sam Miller to the Jewelers Building on Washington Street in Boston. Sam’s father had been a jeweler and it was in the blood. Faith had often blessed the happy chance that placed the parsonage next door to the Millers’ house, or vice versa.
The potter at BAE ceramiche was throwing pots on a wheel, and a young woman, whom they learned was named Roberta Rocchi, was sitting close by, beautifully decorating the ones that had been fired. There was plenty to occupy Tom, including a basement down a short flight that Roberta told them had a window in the floor looking into part of an Etruscan grotto complete with some ancient pots. Tom eagerly went to look, giving Faith plenty of time to buy a large platter decorated with red poppies, sheaves of wheat, a line of cypresses, and the hill town itself, as well as similar patterns on other pieces that she would give as gifts. Meeting the people who had made the pieces gave them special meaning. She also bought a reproduction of the Medici crest in glowing scarlet and gold for Tom to hang on his study wall. In her eyes, her husband was a Renaissance man.
“I love this place,” she exclaimed out on the street, which was little more than a sidewalk, after arranging shipment. “And not just because we’re going to have that lovely platter. But the colors of the stone—the houses glow—and everyone has a green thumb. I want some of those pale lavender