Dan still wasnÕt used to the standard shift. The car jerked forward and gravel spurted under the tires of the bare-bones Fiat rental as he stopped short at a red light. "They sure donÕt give you any warning. What a stupid country," he said.

"Hey," Dan said, elbowing Serena and pointing out the window at the shop by the side of the road. "Look at that poor schmuck, stuck between those two bitches. What a life he must have." A row of crudely-painted statues of peasant farmers advertised ceramic and terra cotta garden decor. Two plaster women with shiny black hair, bright pink cheeks, and sunflower yellow aprons, ample arms akimbo, flanked a skinny little plaster man. The manÕs eyes looked heavenward from under the narrow brim of his green contadino hat. "Poor guy," Dan said. "Looks like heÕs saying, ÔMamma mia, give-a me a break-a.Õ" He looked at Serena to see if she got the joke, but she was concentrating hard on the Michelin road map. "Ponte dÕ Arbia," she said, making a small, firm X beside the name of the town they had just passed. A row of these Xs marched up the map, showing their progress since they left Fumicino airport in Rome three hours ago, and began the long drive north, to Siena.

Of course Serena had heard Dan, but she had decided to ignore his burlesque imitation of Italian, the language she found so romantic. She had made a resolution on the plane when it touched down in Rome, to overlook his disparaging comments about domestic life. She wanted to build only happy memories in Italy. Memories that would sustain her, just as the anticipation of this trip had sustained her during the last three years, years given over to DanÕs law school studies. And now, here they were, "dreams do come true," Serena thought, looking again at the map, and then at Dan. She pulled at a damp strand of her long, straight brown hair and wound it around her ear, then lifted the ponytail she had tied at the nape of her neck, and wiped away the sweat that was starting to run down her back.

Serena had been to Siena twelve years before, when she had just turned twenty, and the Oberlin College Choir performed the Bach Mass in B Minor at a choral concert in the nave of San Dominico. Usually timid about new experiences, Serena was surprised how confident she felt, walking alone during lunch breaks from rehearsals through the magical, medieval city. She even enjoyed the comments directed at her from men, leaning on their parked motorbikes. She would meet their eyes, and smile. Later, during a run-through of the Gloria, her mild, second soprano had soared free, causing the choir director to ask where this new voice had come from. He chided her, "Good, Serena, but remember, this is ensemble work. Hold back."

On her last day in Siena, she had wedged a five-hundred lire coin into a loose brick by the Fonte Gaia at the wide end of the Piazza del Campo. "IÕll be back," she had whispered. "One day IÕll honeymoon here."

Serena and Dan had dated since they were sophomores in college. They married soon after moving to New York, Dan to study law at Columbia University, and Serena to teach. Dan, worried about the cost of law school, had insisted on a City Hall wedding, with Serena carrying a bouquet of white carnations and daisies he had plucked from the deli at the corner of their block in the East Village. His big splurge was dinner and a one-night honeymoon at the Paramount Hotel. Over cr�me caramel at Chez Napoleon, Serena had proposed a real honeymoon, in Siena. Dan told her, "If you want a fancy wedding trip, youÕll have to plan for it Ñ and find the money."

Serena, determined to keep her five-hundred-lire vow, took an extra job, working as a secretary in a CPAÕs office on weekends during tax seasons to supplement her earnings as a music teacher at John Jay High School. In the summers, she was a day camp counselor at the 17th Street Y. Between her jobs, typing drafts of DanÕs papers on the old IBM 286, and running over to the University where there was no charge for photocopying, Serena managed to cadge an hour or two each week for research at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square. There she would treat herself to a cappuccino, because she could read the travel guides without having to make a purchase. She wrote her notes in pencil on a yellow legal pad balanced in her lap.

Her excitement mounted in proportion to the size of the accordion file she kept, stuffing it with brochures and booklets, and the yellow pages of her notes. Nights when Dan was at the law library, or in a study group, she memorized SienaÕs seventeen neighborhoods, the contrade, and all their symbols, reciting their names as she walked back and forth in the kitchen.

Over the years, the map of Siena became covered with felt pen marks in the seventeen colors of the contrade. Thanks to her efforts, she and Dan would not get lost in the confounding maze of alleyways, arcade passages, tiny, dark squares, and impossibly short streets with names that changed, it seemed, every few yards.

In spite of the cost of ColumbiaÕs tuition, and DanÕs books, she had put aside enough by graduation to surprise him with a five-thousand dollar savings account and the accordion folder, marked "Honeymoon," wrapped up in silver and white wedding-bell paper, and tied with a big white ribbon.

All afternoon the package sat, untouched, in the middle of the kitchen table. The graduation ceremony had been long, and tiring. Maybe Dan just hadnÕt seen it? He was lying on the couch, watching a Knicks game. Serena waited until a commercial, then carried the package to him. "Tah Dah," she said, putting it on his chest.

"Hey, the game isnÕt over yet. IÕll look at this thing later," Dan had said, pushing the package onto the floor.

Serena picked it up, and straightened the crumpled bow. "Better wait until after supper," she thought. After she had finished drying the dishes, she opened the package herself and showed Dan the itinerary sheÕd developed for each day. For a hotel she had chosen the Antica Torre from an article in the travel section of the New York Times. The description of the Seventeenth-century tower room had started her dreaming happily about how she and Dan would cross the rosy, red-brick wedge of the Campo in their bare feet some midnight. The piazza would still be warm from the long summer dayÕs sun. They would sit at one of the bars along its edge, sip Sambuca, and laugh. Real married life would begin then.

"Well, that hotel is out," Dan had said, reviewing her detailed notes. IÕm not going to spend that much on a place just to sleep!" He had also nixed the air-conditioned car. "Air conditioning! Are you nuts? Roll down the windows, for GodÕs sake." But, even though he grumbled about the money being better used to pay off some school loans, he had finally agreed to the trip.

They were getting close now, only a few more kilometers. Serena marked a final X on the map beside "Costalpino," and suddenly the road became a barely passable sliver, running between high, red brick walls that shut out the open countryside.

She felt triumphant as the car passed through SienaÕs ancient gate, "Porta Romana," she caroled rolling her "rÕs" as she had learned in her beginning Italian class. "Porrrrt-a Rrrroman-a," Dan mimicked her, exaggerating SerenaÕs "rÕs." But she didnÕt mind. She was in Siena.

When Dan stopped the car, she folded the map neatly along its well-worn creases, put it into the glove compartment, opened the car door and moved forward, eagerly, into the hubbub of SienaÕs market day, trundling her black, wheeled suitcase behind her.

The room in The Pensione Minerva was small and oppressively warm. It smelled of cigarette smoke, and the bed was narrow for a matrimoniale. Even with the windows closed, you couldnÕt escape the street noise, bouncing off the stone walls outside. Serena went to the window. She opened it wide, hoping for light and some fresh air. "Shut the window, youÕre letting bugs in," Dan said, striding across the room and slamming the casement shut with such force the frame rattled.

"WHAM." The flat of his hand came down on her shoulder. Hard. "See?" he said, "mosquito."

Serena could feel DanÕs eyes on her as she looked down at the thin, brown trail of blood the tiny insect made on her skin. The reddening imprint of his hand was sure to be a bruise by morning. She would have to change into a long-sleeved blouse before they went out to dinner.