9. Fontanella, 1263

‘…che sull’ultimo tratto conduceva ad una Fontanella, proprio sotto le absidi della Chiesa di S. Agostino. E’ una delle tante fonti senesi e fra le meno note anche se caratterizzata da una ripida scalinata che porta alla vera fonte incassata nel terreno da cui ancora sgorga limpida acqua. Le prime notizie di una “Fontanella” risalgono al 1263, ma la sua probabile costruzione e’ di cinque anni dopo. L’arcone del prospetto fu rifatto nel 1481, perche’ cadente.

Piero Torriti, Tutta Siena Contrada per Contrada, pg. 243

‘…which at its final bit leads to a certain Fontanella, completely under the foundations of the Church of San Agostino. It is one of the many fountains of Siena and among the less notable, characterised by a steep staircase which leads to the fountain itself, stuck in the earth from which still springs fresh water. The first notice of a ‘fontanella’ is in 1263, but its actual construction was probably five years later. The arch on the outside of the fountain was redone in 1481, because it was falling apart.’

Late evening, after dinner, and I was slightly woozy from the dinner time wine – which, incidentally, was about normal. Isabella was on the living room couch reading a book as I came in to peruse the bookshelves.

“What are you looking for?” she asked curiously.

“I dunno,” I responded evasively. “A history book, maybe.”

“Well, what do you want to find?”

I was suddenly annoyed by the fact that we always spoke in English at home. At least, with Isabella it had become a habit, although, I admitted to myself, at the dinner table more often than not a few comments in English turned into long and emotional discourses screamed over the table in Italian. I seldom participated in these, obviously.

I shrugged in response to Isabella, not feeling very forthcoming.

“And yo, what’s up about that raincoat you’ve brought home. Is it yours now? Is he your fidanzato or something?”

I rolled my eyes. Fidanzato, the very Italian concept of ‘going steady’ with someone, was a weird halfway point between having a boyfriend and being betrothed. “No, Isabella,” I said patiently, “My jacket was too heavy for the weather now that it’s warm, that’s all. He doesn’t use it. No, we’re not fidanzati!”

I was surprised to feel the faint heat of a blush curling up my neck. What was this? Did I want Federico as a fidanzato? I huffed in annoyance at the questions that Isabella brought up, and turned to the bookshelf to find a history book.

It was in Italian, but I turned to the index and looked under ‘Fonti,’ the slick pages slipping under my fingers. To my shock, there was a list two inches long. Were there really that many fountains? How could I have missed them?

Then I reconsidered the question. Siena, being a labyrinth, made finding everything a challenge. It was no wonder that I hadn’t accidentally tripped over all the fountains. It was more impressive that I’d found any at all. I looked down the list and randomly chose ‘fontanella.’ Where could this be? I thought with rising curiosity. I flipped back to page 243, and frowned at the difficult Italian. Underneath St. Agostino? Where was that? I wrinkled my brow, trying to remember. I reread the two sentences about Fontanella. Did that mean there was a street called fontanella? That would make things easier.

I took the book and floated up to my room, visions of fountains zinging around energetically in my head. When I got there I dug through the books in my backpack until I found my ratty but precious street map. I perused it, searching high and low for St. Agostino. I felt an actual bolt of excitement when I found it, mapping out in my head the necessary trajectory.

First, I thought, I have to take Via Dupre. That’s right off the Piazza, so there shouldn’t be a problem finding it. I follow that all the way until I get to a church on my left…I squinted, which should be outside the old wall of the city. So, I pass through an arch, find a church, and then I keep going straight and that should be the Via di Fontanella! How simple.

Then I reconsidered. Wait until I find it, I realised. Then I can decide how simple it is. I was excited as I set the book down and started organising my backpack for the next day of school.

A tiny afterthought as I was in bed, nearly falling asleep. What was up with Isabella? She’d been on that couch all the way through dinner, refusing to come to the table, and if she’d eaten, it was definitely after I went upstairs. But the thought skidded away as my mind filled with sleepy images of subtly pointed arches, the echo of flowing water, and the shiny aqua color of a ray of sun crossing the depths of a fountain.

I slammed my hand flat on the top of the alarm clock to silence it, and it subsided into a moody sulk. I sat up in bed, wondering what was different about today. The light was diffused, early morning sun through my two open window shades, and I could hear the fruit trees swaying and murmuring to each other in the penthouse breeze.

Then I realised what it was. Today I was going to find a fountain, all on my own! I felt a bubble of rising excitement, and threw the cover off of me, hopped out of bed straight on a pile of my as yet uncollected lambswool toe shoe stuffing, and went unconcernedly bouncing down the hall to the bathroom, flecks of soft white lambswool a trail behind me.

Breakfast, the usual yoghurt and banana, somehow tasted more exotic in light of my future adventure. Even the horrendous noise and stink and annoyance of a herd of workmen reasphalting the road outside my apartment seemed intriguing and foreign, instead of just a pain. I boarded the bus feeling like I had just arrived in Siena, suddenly noticing how foreign it was. The seats were hard orange plastic, the bus a mishmash of colours that already made me think of Siena. I thought suddenly of the city buses in Seattle. White (except for the aquamarine ones), sometimes with an accordion center so the bus could be double length but still get around corners. The aqua buses were new, novel. I had no idea what the seats were covered with, or if they were covered at all, but I knew that if I went back there right this minute, it would seem unbearably mundane.

It was with a sigh that I left the bus and went to class. I did not want to sit through our standard Thursday revision of the week’s grammar. I did not want to discuss in groups of three people (always Ilaria, Stefano and I) whatever topic the textbook offered us, using the new grammatical structures.

Madri, I thought drily, would have skipped class when she felt this way. I, unfortunately, would feel too guilty if I skipped class. And I knew, even now far from my Cole-life, that my grades mattered for something. Sra. Santorini was sure to do something hideous to any one of us who dared skip a class. Those who couldn’t make it had long ago dropped out. Not, I added acerbically, that it’s difficult. The being up every day at 9 am is the hardest part.

I arrived with a sigh, desperately wanting to be off, adventuring. How could I ever make it through these dragging three hours? They were an endless desert ahead of me, with no oasis in sight.

Ilaria entered the class looking unusually bedraggled, just as I was settling myself unwillingly into my seat. A giggle from one of the snotty blond Texans up front made me look up, as she brushed in wearing a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt under her velvet jacket. I frowned. That was definitely not Ilaria clothing. As a matter of fact, I thought, it seemed to be Italian man clothing. The sort of thing I would wear, if I could get away with it.

The American version of which, I thought with vague amusement, I wear anyway, as I looked down at myself. Sure enough, same old ratty doc martens, hemp jeans in a hand dyed indigo, boys long sleeved shirt with a skateboarding logo on it. My hair was in a dancer’s bun, high and tight. I had gotten dressed in about 8 minutes, hair included. I knew that for Italian women such a concept was anathema.

“Ilaria, what’s up?” I whispered as she came to sat down, looking surreptitiously around the classroom in case the instructor was around to hear me speaking English. Ilaria looked at me and I was shocked again, because for the first time I could remember, she was makeup free. Her violet eyes were even larger without raccoon eyeliner and copious mascara, large and teary in a pale face. I noticed abstractly that she had a delicate sprinkling of freckles across her nose, usually coated with foundation and invisible.

She only shook her head at me, without responding. I knew the feeling, I thought wryly, wishing that the aisle weren’t such a huge gap between us. The moment when if you open your mouth to admit something’s wrong, you’ll never stop crying, so it’s better to keep everything inside until you can hide in a corner and let loose. I looked at her meaningfully for a moment, but she kept her head down, textbook open on the desk.

“Yo,” Stefano said as he brushed by me to sit down. “What’s up with your friend?”

“Some bad news,” I said vaguely. “Family things, it’s better not to mention it right now.” He nodded, understandingly. Stefano’s gift for Italian was not in the top ten, but he was a nice guy. Then, before we could converse further, Sra. Santorini made her appearance, and chapter 11 became the center of our world: the past subjunctive. I checked the clock surreptitiously in the middle of our endless grammar worksheets, and was surprised to see that the first hour had passed relatively painlessly. My curiosity regarding Ilaria fought with my curiosity about the fountain, a tug of war first in one direction, then in the other, as I filled in blank after blank with past subjunctive verb forms.

When class finally ended, I nearly exploded from my seat. It was time to go adventuring. I was already repeating the course in my head. Piazza del Campo, Via Dupre, San Agostino, chiesa, Via di Fontanella.

“Gaia!” Ilaria called behind me as she collected her coat to leave, and I waited at the entrance to the University but I was impatient. “Ilaria,” I said, “I have to go. I have a meeting.”

She looked, if anything, even worse. I started to feel a strange lightheadedness in the face of her pain. What if something was really wrong? What if she needed help and I couldn’t give it to her? I could feel the tight wide eyed panic starting low in my gut, and I knew it was better not to ask. I gave her a tight hug, fast and wordless, and with a squeeze of her shoulder, I turned and was on my way. I entered the piazza, bright with clear but unsatisfyingly chilly sunlight, and as I passed the Palazzo Comunale, I looked up at the Torre di Mangia, its top white and delicate far above us, like the eye of a great needle. The Palazzo was possessed of a fabulous symmetry, and now as I looked up at it I was struck anew by the precise crenellations, the two wings of the palazzo slightly lower than the middle section, and the tower rising high and proud on the left.

Not, I thought, that I had really noticed the Palazzo the first time around, or later, as I rush around going somewhere to study, or home, or escaping from horrible fears. I was slightly bitter, wondering where the time had gone. It was the middle of April already, and I was going home in the middle of June. Ten whole chapters of 14 were done in our Italian textbook. In Latin class we had already covered (half of homer?). In history we had discovered the wonders of Siena’s streets and entered great numbers of museums.

My project, I remembered with alarm, was due in a month. Then I was relieved, remembering that right now I was going to see a fountain, and that was part of my project. I perused the street names along the front of the piazza. Via Dupre! I saw with surprise. It was the first street on the right of the great Palazzo. I turned and started walking down the street.

My mind turned to Ilaria, with a sudden pang of regret. What if she just needed a friend? I thought, feeling miserable. What if that hopefully glimmer in her eyes when she sees me is extinguished now? What if, by not talking, I failed her already? It didn’t seem fair that I managed even to fail friends I hadn’t wanted in the first place. I knew I wasn’t ready for this! I hollered internally, directing it towards the empty hole where the alien lived.

He was quiet.

I kept walking as the street curved and went up a hill. Up and up, I recognised it now as I passed a number of old looking alleys on my right. Ahead of me was the great arch. This would be the arch of the old city wall! I was pleased, finally recognising something.

I passed through the arch and found a little church on my left. Sant’Agostino, it turned out, was the great pebbled courtyard with trees in front of an elementary school which was, incidentally, housed in an old convent. I stopped and looked at it for a second. How strange, I contemplated, that a fountain could be under this. Is there water flowing in the streets under my feet? I looked down at the great rectangular stones, incised with lines in some places – for friction, and worn away in great circles in other places, by time and use and who knows what.

Then I turned and looked at the little church on my left. In front of it there was a fountain with a seedy looking fish on top. I wrinkled my nose. There was still a street in front of me, though, so I was confident that I was at least pretty near where I was supposed to be. I walked down a ways, down a little hill, and then saw the street sign on the church. Via di Fontanella, it proclaimed. This would be it, I said with a shrug of my shoulders. I stuck my hands into the capacious raincoat pockets, and strolled down the hill.

It was a rather steep stroll. I thought about wearing high heels and coming down this street. You would fall on your face, I concluded. The camber of the road plus the six centimeters of spike would overbalance a woman and her boobs would be lower than her butt. She’d definitely fall. I snorted. I did enough to my feet dancing on them every day. I wore nice, low and comfortable doc martens. With insoles. And my feet were usually happy. I couldn’t understand how the Italian women did it.

To my right I suddenly noticed a little fence, which was locked. Beyond the fence was a staircase, that went down down into darkness. I peered over it. Sure enough, at the bottom there was a fountain, although I couldn’t see it that well from here. I looked around. There was absolutely no one here. The fence was low. One foot over, I hefted the coat up a little higher -- then the other leg in a curving arabesque. I probably looked like a bat as the jacket fluttered behind me. I slung the backpack across my shoulders and started the descent. I was excited. A fountain! And I already knew it was called Fontanella.

I paused at the bottom. There was not really anywhere to sit. A ledge along the wall holding the road up would have been perfect, except that it was covered with the residue of pigeons and slime from rainfall and road ventilation.

No, I thought.

The stairs might have been a choice, but they were perpendicular to the fountain and didn’t lend me a nice view. I stood awkwardly in front of it with my notebook, trying to jot things down that I could use for my class assignment.

Fontanella was a single arch, and as I peered at the ceiling I could see that it was different than the others. Instead of being arched inside with bricks, or with a cross vault, it looked like it had been excavated by hand, one notch at a time, to form a pointed ceiling.

The single basin of water was totally free of pigeon crap. I looked around and decided this was for a number of reasons. Pigeons were way too stupid to come all the way down here for water, first. There was nowhere inside the fountain for them to sit, either. Because of this, the water was shockingly clean, aqua coloured and refreshing. At least, I frowned at the chunk of white stone in the wall, if you were willing to disregard that plaque. The basin of water was freestanding, surrounded by a white-stoned space that was lower than the ground I was standing on. It could be reached by three little steps, but looking closer I noticed that it was damp. This, I concluded, probably served to control the overflow of water.

I felt very smart thinking this. Then I was tempted to step onto the lip of the basin, and peer down into it. It looked dry right on the corner, at least, I convinced myself. I dumped the backpack on the ground behind me, where it hit with a dry thud of books. Then, cautiously, I walked down the steps and, not wanting to touch the slimy looking walls, I balanced carefully on one foot and stepped with the other up onto the basin.

The water looked even clearer from nearby. The bottom of the basin was traced with lines and irregularities, created from centuries of calcium filled water. I stared into it, and remembered the reservoir.

Three days before Halloween, and it was the Russian Club party. Madri came to my dorm room, as planned, to tell me what to wear.

“Can’t I just wear jeans? And a tshirt?” I asked.

“No,” Madri demanded. She was wearing a tank top with a long sleeved mesh shirt over it, and a very little black skirt. It was the first time I wouldn’t have mistaken her for a 12 year old.

“Um, can I wear jeans with a leotard?”

“No,” Madri was already digging through my closet. I felt relieved that none of her stuff would fit me, otherwise I would have been wearing something surely frightening. But I had misjudged the horrors that were to be found in my closet. She pulled out a very small black dress, originally from a ballet performance freshman year.

“Er,” I said, shocked voiceless. Madri was pleased. “This!” she threw it at me.

Next came the makeup. She outlined my eyes in something blue, covered my eyelids in sparkles and my lips in red, until I felt like a raccoon-stripper escaped from the circus. My only victory was that the doc martens got to stay.

And with no further ado, we were off to the Glen, a secluded area of campus surrounded by trees, with three public use buildings – known to students as party shacks, in a large clearing. At least, I consoled myself, we’re not going to a frat party.

The Russian Club party was in full swing when we passed under the enormous, defunct communist flag at the entrance, showed our IDs to the moody, presumably Russian bouncer, and entered a huge, smoky room full of dancing students and a band playing groovy Russian tunes.

I noticed right away that I recognised people. Quite a few people, as a matter of fact, but somehow in the dim light and the flickering shadows, they didn’t look quite the same. Maybe Madri had a point about these parties. She grabbed my hand, dragging me past the band towards the back of the room. We passed a winding staircase to the balcony, and went down a few stairs to another room. People were dancing in this room, too, but a little bit slower. One more doorway, and we were in the bar. Plastic cups of beer, tacky mixed drinks, here they were. I saw Lucy, a girl from my Latin class, wobbling back and forth on a pair of heels I would never have credited her with owning. On the other hand, I didn’t think she had that much cleavage to expose, I thought cattily.

I was immediately ashamed of my snideness. Well, I defended myself, Madri said to try something new. Maybe I need to try not to be so boring! She handed me a cup full of something pink, and I took a sip. It was fruity and alcoholic. I didn’t have time to enjoy it, because Madri was already dragging me back the way we had come, back to the balcony. We climbed the stairs into a smoky den. The music was still loud enough to shout over, but here there were couches, with small groups of people lurking together…couples necking vigorously – I looked away. Wasn’t that what dorm rooms were for?

I blushed, suddenly recalling my two month fling with Dorian somewhere around the middle of my sophomore year. Thank god that ended, I sighed with relief, and took a sip of the alcohol. But I did seem to recall a bit of debauchery during a frat party. So much for not being hypocritical.

We finally arrived at our destination, a couch angled to face the balcony, looking at the masses of bobbing heads below. There was a great view of the band.

“Everyone,” Madri said, and unfamiliar faces turned to look at me, “this is Cole.” They nodded, smiled vaguely. They didn’t really care, and I thought I probably wouldn’t want to know them in daylight anyway. The two boys were wearing loose fitting jeans, tshirts, sandy haired, standard college stock. The three girls sandwiched between them were in various states of party-appropriate deshabille, mostly black, with hair that was clearly dyed. We sat on the arm of the couch, drank our fruity drinks, and I listened to Madri talk to the boy next to her about snowboarding. “This is Chris,” she said to me during a pause. I recognised him then by name as one of the crowd that she usually went snowboarding with. They returned to a serious analysis of ? gak. some snowboarding thing?* I relaxed onto the balcony railing and wondered what was so special about parties, if we were expected to just sit around in tacky clothing. I could do that in my own room! I contemplated the matter, staring into my peachy drink, until Madri upset my position on the couch arm, and went off to the bathroom.

I saw Jessica weaving her way across the room towards the couch, and I was relieved. She had exchanged her jeans for a wild, flower patterned skirt, but she was still wearing her docs too. I motioned her over next to me.

“Madri convinced me to come,” I explained. “But I’m not really getting the idea. What’s the point if we just sit around?”

She looked at me for a second, then looked up, scanning the room for someone. “Come with me,” she said. I followed her off the couch, through a hallway and out to a genuine balcony on the other side. The quiet was a relief, and it was early enough that no one else was out here.

“I know this might sound weird, but can you try to get Madri to come home with you tonight?” Jessica’s voice was low and urgent.

“Why?” I asked, looking at her in surprise.

“We keep telling her not to hang out with that crowd, she knows it’s no good for her. But she needs some help sometimes. Please, Cole.”

“Of course, if I can. But which crowd? What’s wrong with them?”

“Chris is the worst,” Jessica paused, covering her eyes. It would have seemed theatrical in other circumstances. “And they spend so much time together!” She paused, and I didn’t know if she would go on. “I guess it’s like, if you love somebody who’s bad for you. You know, you’re a dancer, so what if you were madly in love with a guy who cooked, and wanted you to try everything. Sooner or later you would pass your limit. Either you’d have to say no to him, or say no to your own desires. But if it were all or nothing? Either no him at all, or no you at all? That’s sort of Madri’s problem.”

I was taken aback. I didn’t think she meant Chris, exactly, although I understood her analogy. “You mean, either she hangs out with the crowd, or she does what’s better for her? And she can’t go halfway?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said, appearing relieved that I wouldn’t dig further. I knew that Madri had personal problems of some sort, and I was glad that there were people caring for her. I couldn’t help being curious, but I had done all I could to make sure she knew I was there for her. If Madrigal wanted me to know what was up, I assumed she would tell me. I was a bit frightened by these people she hung out with, and in awe of her skill on a skateboard, and I assumed that there were things in her world that I just wouldn’t understand.

Jessica and I returned to the couch to see Madri standing by, bouncing to the music. “Come on!” she hollered, rolling her eyes at me. “I’ve been waiting for you!” She grabbed me by one hand, and Jessica by the other, and dragged us down to the sweaty dance floor.

I figured out pretty quickly why less clothing was better. People energetically jumped and danced everywhere, couples tight against each other – the Dean of the College probably tried to forget that his intelligent co-eds could conceive of such behaviour, and the air was hot, steamy, and full of cigarette smoke. I danced around as mindlessly as my companions, thinking vague endless thoughts and allowing the evening to pass.

I was suddenly forced back to reality when I noticed that Jessica was now dancing with a tall, dark boy and that Madri was staring past me. Hands hit my waist and before I could move, a smooth voice in my ear said, “Welcome to the party, beautiful. I haven’t seen you around before,” and he danced behind me, absolutely touching, as my eyes widened in shock, and Madri nearly keeled over laughing.

When the song ended, I turned to him in shock and, barely noticing what I was doing, I yelled “What was that for, you creep? You’re supposed to introduce yourself first!”

He stared at me in shock for a second, and then smiled, held out his hand and said, “Hello, I’m Andrei.” I looked at his hand for a second, then looked up at him, noticing belatedly that he was very good looking (enough to be able to get away with such tactics, I wondered). “I’m Dasha,” I said, and then suddenly realised why this conversation felt so strange. I turned back to Madri to ask for help, but she was off dancing with Jessica again.

“I mean,” I said, in English this time, “I’m Cole. Not Dasha. Ever.”

Andrei was laughing at my confusion, and I was mortified to have slipped into Russian without noticing. I had spoken it at home when I was young, but I hadn’t used it in years. I kept on dancing, trying not to face him directly or dance with him. I slowly edged my way over to Madri. “That freaked me out!” I hollered in her ear. She laughed at me, her eyes sparkling. Madri seemed to light up in this dark, noisy atmosphere. I knew it was true for some people, but I missed my version of dancing, precise and controlled. “Have a sense of adventure!” she hollered back. “I dare you to kiss the boy!”

I stared at her in horror. “No way!” She shook her head in mock anguish. “You’re not drunk enough. If you were, you would.”

I shrugged. She was probably right, but the one or two drinks I’d had weren’t about to have much effect. I understood the sense of possibility that lurked in the murky corners of these college parties. You came face to face with people you didn’t know, didn’t see in your daily life on campus, or people you know who just looked different in their party clothes, and all of a sudden you were free of your ordinary responsibilities. I looked calculatingly at Madri, worrying over what the party lifestyle had done to her. She saw me, and raised her eyebrows. I nodded. We headed over to the stairs, up and out to the fresh air. Now lots of people were collected along the balcony in herds and couples, but we fought for a space along the balcony, and leaned on it, looking over into the trees. “See, Cole, your problem is that you don’t even take the adventure when it’s shoved in your face. That guy would totally have gone for you. Why not just let go of reality for a little bit?”

“It’s not that I have a problem with letting go of—” I stopped, unsure if that were true. “How can you let go of reality, Madri? That actually sounds terrible. Maybe I’m a control freak or something.”

“Yeah, you are.” She sounded pretty cheerful about it, though.

“But reality’s there. You can’t let go of it, it’ll come back and haunt you the next day.” I was beginning to understand certain things the other dancers talked about in the dressing room. Madri was right to say that they partied a lot – and they had an ever changing repertoire of vendettas and hatreds against each other because of who stole whose boyfriend at the latest party.

“I don’t know, Cole. Sometimes reality is just what you construct it to be.” We leaned on the balcony, staring into the distance. Was she right? I thought. Could I decide to be someone who kissed random people at parties, and then do it? I wasn’t so sure. More to the point, I didn’t see how it would make my life any better. Kissing random boys meant pissed-off girlfriends in the morning. What was the bother?

“Why bother?” I asked.

“Bother what?” Madri said, not following.

“Bother to toy with people, I guess. You know, decide to kiss random people at parties. Or to change the way you’ve constructed your reality.”

“Well, it’s not necessarily toying with people,” Madri started out. She wasn’t nearly as jumpy as she’d been a few minutes ago. She wound a strand of her brownish auburn hair around her finger, examining it closely. I watched, wondering what she would say.

“I mean, if you’re both toying, you know it’s a game. That’s what these parties are. People who get angry about what happens are people who take it too seriously.”

“But there is carryover into your real life. If you do something at a party, you’ve still done it. It’s not less real.”

“I don’t know,” Madri was meticulously picking the curl of hair apart, and I wondered if she was uneasy, or if I was just being too sensitive. Her hands were shaking, I noticed.

“Things people do at parties might have an impact on a person,” she elucidated, “but they aren’t necessarily characteristic of that person’s behaviour. So see, you could go off and kiss guys, knowing it’s a game, without making that part of your day-to-day interaction with the world. It wouldn’t turn you into a genuine flirt. Just a sort of,” she let go of her hair, grabbing onto the rail, jumped on it. An electric bolt drove through me, a sudden paranoia that she would just jump over while I watched. Get a grip, Cole, I thought. It’s only 10 feet. Most people don’t die from that height.

“…a sort of what?”

She giggled, teasing now, swinging on her hands like a gymnast about to flip over the bars. “A vampire!”

“Huh,” I snorted, a bit disappointed. That was Madri, directing the conversation away from danger spots. I tried to persevere. “But if I went around kissing guys, I’d know it, and then during the day I would look for them. My attitude toward them would change. I wouldn’t be indifferent any longer.”

Madri looked at me suddenly, and I felt all her concentration behind the look. I met her eyes, smoky green in the darkness. “Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s go do something wild, away from here.”

We tore off into the woods away from the party, raucous laughter and humanity fading away into the slight whispering of couples in the woods and leaves crackling under our feet. Finally I asked. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” said Madri. “Where should we go?”

I was hot from the party and the alcohol, despite the cooling autumn breeze. “Let’s go jump in the reservoir,” I said recklessly.

Madri looked over at me with a sudden smile. “I have taught you something,” she said with wonder. I smiled wryly in response, not about to mention that I’d done it once before. Escapades with a bunch of firefighters gained legitimacy, since they knew all the town cops by name. This was different.

We changed directly slightly, passing through the forest toward the only hole in the reservoir fence that I knew of. I held Madri’s hand, making my way through the trees and the leaves, feeling it so sweaty ** in mine, still shaking, so small. I thought of what Jessica had said, and wondered at the significance. The silence grew deeper, until we saw the glow of the tall lightposts, barbed wire gleaming dully between us and the enormous swimming pool of a reservoir.

“Here,” I whispered as we angled away from the trail, past a tall and pitted beech tree. I crouched on the ground, digging up the leaves with one hand as I tugged Madri down behind me. The hole was just big enough to slither through. I brushed off my dress and my knees, then helped Madrigal up behind me.

“Here we are,” I surveyed. I looked at Madri for assurance. She looked back up at me, then across the reservoir in wonder.

“Well,” she said, her voice low. Her eyes shone in the faint light. “Here we go!” A wicked smile crossed her face, and suddenly I found myself left behind, as she scurried across the dirt, up the ladder, and onto the catwalk type ledge of the reservoir. For one second she was silhouetted up high, vanishingly far into the distance, and then suddenly I was galvanised into motion, running after her. The metal of the ladder was sharp and cold under my palms, reminding me of ancient stretchers and cold, wintry ambulance calls. On the top, I could feel goosebumps rise on my arms. I leaned over, pulling off my boots. Were we really going to jump into the cold, metallic water? I had barely a second to wonder – a second, poised with my feet curling over the edge, water now shining aqua and teal against the painted bottom, lapping gently below me, and the lights brilliant overhead, as Madri shucked off her skirt and her shoes. Her splash sent water up over the edge, my toes froze into icicles, and I thought almost of turning back, but I leaned forward instead, allowing inertia to catapult me into the dubious depths.

This water, so aqua bright, had a similar, eerie appeal. I both wanted to jump in, and I felt like it would be a huge act of trespassing. I stared, mesmerized, not sure how long I had been fixed in this position. I stood back up from my crouch, feeling sad and bereft, my leg muscles tight, complaining as I stretched them out. That evening was irretrievable. I would never have another party with Madri. I would never have the nerve to do something quite so wild and idiotic, nor would I ever get to jaunt home with my arms around hers, laughing raucously at private jokes, or raid my dorm fridge junk food stash, gossiping until the early hours of the morning. That was the sleepover when Madri alluded to her parents, an adult bitterness in her voice, as she drew swirls and fish and other fantastical creatures up my arm and across my back in permanent marker. I mused on my dance aspirations, the almost dizzying hopes that I hesitated to say out loud, and Madri talked about skateboarding, the boy that had taught her, and her favorite languages, lulling me to sleep with snippets of Irish and Romanian. Gone.

I thought of other hands that had dipped into this water before me, now long gone. Ghostly hands, a place without its master, uncared for, unwanted fountain.

What had it felt like for those ghosts, centuries-old real people, to come here for their daily water? They were probably sick of coming to the fountain. You wouldn’t even notice it, like breathing…wake up, go get water, eat, go get water, wash, go get water, eat…I shook my head. Life in the Middle Ages couldn’t have been a lot of fun. I turned to get back, stepping as far as I could back to the steps, touching the wall for balance with the very tip of one finger.

Then I turned back to the fountain, and felt stupid as I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. There was a door. A tiny, old looking metal door, to the left of the fountain. And it was open.

Before I could get much closer to this door to examine the new mystery, I heard the wet thud of footsteps and a clatter, and a man stepped out looking somewhat damp and muddy, wearing rubber boots and a head lamp, and carrying a torch and a strange looking tool. He unfolded himself after squeezing out of the tiny door, and was immediately followed by a tiny woman. As she fitted out the doorframe, she seemed exactly half his size. She was also muddy, was also wearing boots and was carrying a torch, a red plastic bucket and a pair of work gloves.

It was the woman who turned, dropping the bucket and all the accoutrements, and dredged a key out of her pocket. She turned to the door and locked it shut behind her, saying something under her voice to her companion.

I pursed my lips. I wanted to ask them questions but I was afraid to open my mouth, betraying my foreign origins. I wanted desperately to know where they had been. Where did this doorway lead? What had they been doing there? And could I do it, too?

I saw that if I didn’t say anything, they were going to ignore me, and climb up the stairs, and escape. So I cleared my throat, looking at them inquiringly, and wished for a good accent.

“Excuse me, but what’s in there?” I asked.

“I bottini,” the girl explained, and I realised she was my age. I frowned.

“And what are the bottini?” I continued. The man broke in to respond.

“You know about the fountains?” he asked, and I nodded. “Bottini is the term for the underground passageways that connect them. This is how the water is collected and goes to the fountains.”

I nodded my understanding, getting the gist of what he said. But the girl interrupted. “We’re members of the Association for the Diana, which is the club that does everything in Siena relating to the fountains and to the bottini. So our task,” motioning to her companion, “Is to go into this bottino once a month and make sure that it’s clean and functional.”

“Can I join that association?” I asked.

“Sure,” the man responded. “You should come to the Via del Paradiso on a Tuesday night, around 5. That’s when we all meet, at number 22. Ring the bell that says Diana, and we’ll let you up.”

My mind was spinning with the information. I hoped I had understood everything correctly. Tuesday night, five pm, number 22, I repeated. I nodded.

“Okay,” I smiled at them. “I’ll see you there.” They collected their entrapments, and went slogging wetly up the steps. I watched them, and wondered what caring for a bottino entailed. Then I realised we hadn’t even introduced ourselves. How Sienese, I thought with a sneer. I smiled to myself, and wrapped the jacket around me. At least I have Fede and Caterina, I thought, collecting my backpack to return to my history lecture. I spared one last look for fontanella before I climbed all the stairs, full of ideas and the silent wisdom of the fountain.

History class was a strange anticlimax after spending a silent hour at Fontanella. We discussed the art in the Palazzo Pubblico, art full of political undercurrents and religious undercurrents and although it was interesting, and I should have been even more interested, I wanted to be somewhere else. We strolled calmly through the rooms of the palace, and I took a minute to drape myself over the frame of an open window and look out at the piazza. It was strange to see it from this point of view. A mere few hours ago, I had been looking up at these windows, and now I was looking out from them. I still wanted to be somewhere else. I was full of an odd impatience, to be moving, to be…doing something. Instead of thinking so much.

I had been helping Fede every day at the bar, but today, I thought, I was desperate to dance. Going home at 7 in the evening meant that I was home for dinner and then did some woozy-headed homework, and fell straight asleep. Luckily it was easy to do the homework during class. And luckily I had already completed all of the assignments in chapter 10 a few weeks ago. That’s what I need to do, I thought as I watched people crossing the piazza, I need to work on my dance, and center myself. Then I’ll feel normal.

I realised there was an odd silence behind me, and I turned to see that the entire class had filed out of the room, and I had to go find them. Before I left, I spared a glance for the art we had been discussing. Sala di Mappamondo, I said to myself, trying to construct the appropriate degree of awe. These, after all, are my dead people. Right here – here they are, constructing fountains one by one. Meeting in these very rooms to discuss where to send the water. Maybe some of them are even poor enough to have to go down all those steps for their water every day. I surveyed the frescoes in the tall, fantastically painted room, hearing the absence of the Council of Nine. The long dead Council of Nine, never forgotten. The cornerstone of Siena’s existence.

I reluctantly went out the door, listening for the accented drone of the professor’s Oxford learned English. I rejoined the class, fitting my notebook more steadily on my arm, and monotonously continued to take notes as my mind flittered over my dance choreography.

Four in the afternoon, and I was liberated, on my way home. I was heading up the street, just about at La Lizza, when I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go home without at least saying hi to Fede. I did an about face and went to the bar.

I walked in to stand at the bar table, watching Fede and the other barista cleaning things up. There were a few people sitting at the tables, but a general calm hovered in the air. It was the fragile calm that could be broken the minute a noisy herd of teenagers entered, or a few people who might crowd themselves along the bar demanding coffee and cappuccino and sandwiches and all sorts of other complicated things. I remembered this with a sense of agony from the previous day.

Fede looked up and smiled at me. “Make it yourself,” he teased, and I laughed. “I just came to see you,” I said. “I’m going home to dance today, but I told you, I’m coming tomorrow, right?”

He nodded. “But what do you want to drink?” he insisted. “You can’t go off without something.”

I shrugged, trying to think of what wouldn’t ruin my dancing. “Some fruit juice,” I said. “Choose me the first one you come to.”

Federico laughed, and I wondered whether I was acting like myself. Then I remembered, here I was Ariele, and I could be whoever I wanted. He set the glass on the counter and poured me some pear juice with a flourish. I leaned against the bar to drink it, enjoying watching him do his work. The other barista, at the far end of the bar, was making a sandwich for a middle aged Italian woman, her makeup almost clownish on a face that showed its age and excessive tanning.

“Domani,” Fede said to me all of a sudden, and I looked at him inquiringly, “Do you remember Marco?”

“Marco?” I shook my head. “Who’s that?”

“Marco di Gaspari. He comes in here sometimes, you must remember him! He’s the one who introduced us.”

My eyes were already wide with understanding. I nodded, “Yeah, Sr. di Gaspari, I remember him for sure.”

“We’re going to dinner tomorrow night, him and I. You want to come?”

“To dinner? With the two of you? Will I be interrupting something?” I said worriedly.

He shook his head. “Not at all, he’s like family.” He said this with an odd twist of his head. “We just go out sometimes, we both miss Caterina, so we thought it would be a nice time to do it. You’re welcome to come.”

“Okay,” I said uncertainly, and drained the glass of juice. “I’ll come. It might be interesting, I don’t know him very well.”

Federico raised his eyebrows and looked mysterious. “He’s very interesting,” was all he would say on the topic. I turned to go, but “Ari?” he said to me.

I turned, looking inquiringly at him, but Fede just shook his head. “Nothing, don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I felt oddly deflated by the space between us, the tall bar a great stone barrier, then I flashed back to Isabella’s retort of the previous evening and, turning to go out the door, I flashed a look at him.

No, she was definitely wrong. There was no way I wanted a fidanzato. I snorted, and ran to catch my bus.

*

Excerpt from A History of Siena through the Fountains, by Cole (Gaia) Ostrovsky.

The name itself gives you an idea of what to expect. It’s not called Fonte anything, like a respectable fountain. Instead, it gets a diminuitive. It’s ‘the little fountain,’ end of story. Because of it’s small size, Fontanella also gets very little attention.

This little fountain, however, has a remarkably illustrious history. Although in its current form it was either constructed or rennovated in 1263, the origins of Fontanella are among the most ancient in Siena. The fountain is reached by passing through the contrada of the Wave, and going down a steep hill with the same name as the fountain. After a bit, you come to a gate, which is always locked. Although the spikes on top are daunting, the gate is not high and it is quite easy to hop over.

Next, you climb down a steep brick staircase, which has quite obviously been renovated recently. The street-bearing wall on the left has also been redone, and is now a modern wall of unoriginal brick, lacking the variations in size and colour that characterise the previous centuries. Water drains through holes in this wall, making it impossible to sit anywhere and enjoy the fountain.

The fountain is built about 30 centimeters below ground level. There are stairs leading down to the single basin. Unlike the other fountains, the steep staircase and small size of the fountain – much smaller than Fonte Serena, mean that the pigeons do not succeed in arriving. The result of this is the cleanest looking water of all the fountains. The fountain’s age is visible on the basin bottom, which is irregular in its smooth coating, unlike the other fountains which have a glassy layer of some water proof substance lining the basin.

The most striking aspects of Fontanella, however, are not visible. Like Fonte Nuova, it is fed by its own water source. The water is thus, contrary to the marble notice on the wall, not only potable, but cool and refreshing, and always abundant. The other uniqueness is in Fontanella’s bottini. First, the bottino is circular. It is small but sufficient, and does not connect to any other bottini in Siena. And second, the roof of the bottino is done in a very unusual manner. It is like the ceiling of the fountain, which is not arched with a gothic style support, but like two panels at a 90 degree angle. In Italian, the word to describe this is ‘a capanna.’ And what it signifies is an instant connection with Etruscan origins. It was the Etruscans who built this way, and thus most likely, Fontanella’s bottino is of Etruscan parentage.