by D. L. Smith
The older villagers had guessed where all this was leading when Leo had entered the room and it made them proud to see one of their own socializing with this battalion of strangers—even though they had no idea what was being said. Leo was speaking for them all and proving that they were smart and worldly and had good manners and some even wore linen suits and ties. Really, the only person having any problem right now was the guide. He was wondering why, if Carmen liked him so much, had she just poured a small pitcher of Chianti in his lap?
Leo addressed the crowd.
“I did not mean to interrupt’a your lunch, but I thought’a your question was a good one. Why? Why Santo Fico? Why here? Well, the answer is’a strange. It happened a long time ago, hundreds of’a years. It is, in fact, a sort of . . . magical story about faith and blessed saints, and noblemen, and wars, and miracles . . . If you would’a like to hear . . . ?”
The response was unanimous and sincere. Not only was this pleasantly disheveled character not going to make trouble, he was actually offering them a marvelous diversion—a history of the region.
Amid this hail of approval, Topo made his way to the last empty stool at the bar and gave Leo a quick wink and thumbs-up. It was just an instant of recognition, but Carmen noticed it and recalled how Topo had raced out of the hotel earlier. Something was going on and she didn’t like it. Leo watched Carmen make her way toward the kitchen door and thought— Oh God, she’s going to tell Marta. But there was nothing he could do now, as the room was already hushed in anticipation. Leo closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and became strangely distant—as if he was recalling some blurred memory.
“It was’a over four hundred years ago . . . this month. The great Cosimo de Medici was the Duke of Firenze, what-you-call . . . Florence. It was a time when Firenze was at war with the great city of Siena. Now, this’a war lasted many years and like all terrible wars, it was the cause of many regrets, many tragedies, and even a few miracles . . .”
Leo moved through the room, weaving a stirring tale of how the courageous Duke Cosimo was a flame that lit the fire of the final terrible battle of Siena. He described how Cosimo’s exhausted troops, so far from their home and for so long chancing death, grew discouraged as, day after day, they threw their bodies against the stubborn walls of Siena. Leo thrilled them with his account of how, on one fateful day, astride his valiant white stallion, Cosimo inspired his forces with a heroic speech—though more than a few in this English audience found it surprisingly similar to Henry the
Fifth’s call to arms before the battle of Agincourt.
Leo described how Cosimo recklessly charged his proud horse ahead of his troops and, brandishing his broadsword as if it were a dagger, fought back the startled defenders. The hearts of the listeners pounded when Leo, as if he had been a witness to the fateful moment, described how a lone archer shooting from a distant tower loosed a shaft that caught the great Cosimo full in the chest.
Neither breath nor breeze dared to stir; all were captured by the mortal plight of the great Duke in the very city that they had visited just one day earlier. Many found it amazing that in their time in Siena not a single tour or guidebook mentioned any of this wonderful history. Even the local villagers, who didn’t understand a word of what Leo said, still recognized a few things—they knew he spoke of the great Duke Cosimo, they knew he spoke of Siena and probably a great battle, and they were sure he was telling a wonderful story extremely well.
Leo’s voice became an emotional whisper when he told how Cosimo’s officers carried their beloved Duke to the Siena Duomo and gently laid his dying body on the black and white marble floor beneath the great dome, so he could receive the last rites. But with a wounded gasp the noble Duke abruptly stopped them—
—And Leo also abruptly stopped.
From the back of the dining room two dark eyes burned into him like black firebolts. Without warning, Leo was facing the glare of Marta Caproni Fortino, and he knew instantly from the set of her jaw and the curve of her brow that her quiet fury was profound. Like a frozen Medusa, lightning shot from her dark eyes, seared his brain, and for a moment he was turned to stone. His words became like dazed soldiers who stumbled into one another as they scrambled to rediscover their place in the line of his story, but mostly he was just drowning in her sea of fury. As an Italian, Leo understood Marta’s seething rage—but he’d been living in America for so long that he was unused to it. Americans have never learned what the Italians have perfected—that is, the value of full-blown, for-all-the-world-to-see Righteous Indignation. And because, at that moment, Marta was boiling over with it, Leo was almost knocked to his knees by its full force.
Meanwhile, his rapt English audience was oblivious to his dilemma. In fact, most found Leo’s hesitation poignantly dramatic. The poor man was obviously quite moved by Duke Cosimo’s plight. On the other hand, the moment was not lost for the natives of Santo Fico. They were silent witnesses to an intense battle of wills that was both frightening and fascinating.
Finally, when the tension between the two contenders was pushed so far that half the room was ready to scream at them to stop and the other half was ready to scream at him for the finish of the story—Marta blinked. Then she sighed. She would allow him to continue.
For his part, Leo recovered as deftly as a cat that had slipped from a table. He knew exactly where he was in his improbable fiction, and like any great actor, he knew just exactly how to turn this awkward moment to his advantage. He simply began his description of the dying Duke’s last wish with a slight catch in his voice—and suddenly that long pause, which had actually only been a few seconds, took on a whole new meaning. This sensitive storyteller had needed that moment to master his emotions—and in a twinkling, Leo was rolling again as the tragedy of poor Duke Cosimo continued to unfold. He was so relieved that he even allowed himself a fleeting smugness that he was so much better at this than he was at hanging drywall.
Marta, of course, knew nothing about his years in Chicago hanging drywall (whatever that was). She was only thinking, How dare he do this in my hotel? How dare he wait until my restaurant is crowded with customers and then play his childish scheme?
Although none of the townspeople were foolish enough to openly stare at her, Marta could feel their eyes nonetheless, and so with a practiced response that she was no longer even aware of, she automatically closed off her heart and her mind to any feeling. She allowed nothing in and nothing was allowed to escape, because she knew what they were waiting for, what they wanted—and she was pleased that they would not get it today. This was not the day she would confront Leo Pizzola. Besides, too much of her life had already been a topic for their gossip. Too many times her grief had become nothing more than another whispered scandal or exaggerated rumor for the amusement of her neighbors. They acted as though they understood her life better than she did—and perhaps they did. They certainly knew enough secrets about her and Franco, and maybe even Leo too. But there would be no show for their amusement today—not unless Leo Pizzola cost her business. Then she would pound him like a cheap steak and she didn’t care who saw.
As for the English audience, they fully expected to hear about Duke Cosimo’s last moments on this earth, but it seemed he had another destiny . . .
“Like everyone in’a those days, the Great Duke had heard the tales of the tiny monastery hidden somewhere on’a the coast of Toscana. This monastery was’a built because so many miracles happened on that spot, and according to legend, a certain, powerful miracle still lived there—along with a wonderful’a mystery. And Cosimo sensed that if he could’a only stay alive long enough to get to that blessed site, he might’a yet live.”
Leo told his enthralled audience how a devoted squad of anxious soldiers rode for three days through the heat of the Toscana summer while the poor man’s life teetered between this world and the next. Finally they arrived at the blue Tyrrhenian and climbed the steep cliff crags to a tiny, almost inaccessible monastery perched on the fart
hest point of a sheer promontory.
“When the humble Franciscan monks saw the Great Duke, of course they took’a him in and gently laid his’a weak body on a cot in front of their hallowed shrine—the Miracle of Santo Fico. But poor Duke Cosimo, even in his’a feverish state, he was able to look across the courtyard and’a there, shining out of the darkness, as if it had’a some Inner Light, was the Mystery of Santo Fico. And all through that long night, with the divine Miracle on’a one side and the beautiful Mystery of Santo Fico on’a the other, the holy friars held their vigils with prayers and secret medicines.
“Can’a you even imagine,” Leo sighed, “how shocked those loyal soldiers must’a have been when they came into the church in’a the morning and found that their Duke’s fever was all gone and the infection of his wound was’a healed? He would live! Well, maybe that was’a miracle enough for his soldiers, but not for a Great’a Duke who had just returned from the brink of’a death with . . . a vision!” With a sense of quiet wonder and awe Leo told them how the blessed Saint Francis had come to Duke Cosimo in the night and gently kissed his fevered brow and touched the fatal wound. Leo allowed his voice to lift in exaltation as he told of the Duke’s resolve to create a town on that very spot . . .
“. . . So weary pilgrims from around’a the world, like yourselves, could come and witness the shrine of the Miracle and the splendor of the Mystery of Santo Fico. And that was’a how Santo Fico came’a to be.”
The room was silent for a long time. To Leo’s way of thinking, perhaps too long. After all, he hadn’t told the story in many years, and never in English. He may have lost his touch. But, at last, a universal sigh was expelled. Then someone was inspired to applaud (actually it was Topo) and the ovation quickly became enthusiastic. Leo smiled and offered a modest bow—quite pleased with how much he’d remembered of the original version and also how many poignant details he had been able to fabricate on the spot.
There wasn’t a lot of time to bask in the afterglow. He caught a glimpse of Marta marching in his direction so he hurried back to the bar—away from his fans. Carmen was refilling his wineglass when suddenly her mother was at her shoulder, and it took only the slightest jerk of Marta’s head to make her daughter disappear.
Marta looked Leo up and down—this would not be like their first meeting in the piazza six weeks ago when she’d been so shocked at seeing him. That day she hadn’t been prepared and her emotions had attacked her with a ferocity that she couldn’t control. This was different. This time Leo was in her hotel and this time she was in control.
For the first time since his return, she had a chance to look closely into Leo’s face. He’d changed. This was a man’s face. There were more lines and more scars—probably from fights. The eyes were the same even with the wrinkles, but now the nose was broken in a different way and a jagged scar crossed the bridge. Marta wondered if she’d done that the night before her wedding when she had grabbed up a water pitcher from off the nightstand next to her bed and hurled it at him. She had intended for it to crash into the wall next to him, but in the darkness of the night and blinded by her own tears, she missed. The water pitcher smashed into Leo’s face and knocked him backward out of her second-story bedroom window. He came to earth in the garden below, among the radishes . . . Marta remembered thinking he was lucky. He barely missed landing in the tomatoes where he would have been impaled on the stakes.
She had watched him from her window as he limped out of the moonlit garden holding his face . . . Eighteen years ago last month. That broken, scarred nose may have been her work, she thought—at least, she hoped it was.
For his part, Leo had never considered landing in the radishes a particularly lucky break. He often felt his life would have been so much simpler if he’d just landed on the tomato stakes and that thought occurred to him again as he too had a chance to study a face he hadn’t been close to in eighteen years. The girl he grew up with was gone. It was a woman’s face that stood before him now, but it still took his breath away. It was a face that should have been chiseled out of stone centuries ago and celebrated through the ages as beautiful. There had always been that beauty, Leo thought, but now there was something more. Around the corners of her dark eyes and taut mouth were the tracings of small wrinkles some people call laugh lines, but Leo had a feeling that they weren’t caused by years of excessive joy. Marta had always been filled with a certain intense determination and there was no denying it was still there, but that wasn’t all Leo saw today. He also recognized regret and resignation. He knew them because they were such old companions in his own life.
From his place at the bar, Topo prayed like a zealot that Marta wouldn’t spoil everything—they were so close to success. Even now a few members of the English tour group were asking their guide questions and pointing at Leo. It was going perfectly, and now Marta was going to spoil everything because of some silly . . . What? Even he didn’t know. He, Guido Pasolini, who’d been there eighteen years ago still wasn’t sure what had happened to drive such a terrible wedge between his three best friends. He just knew that after the night of Franco’s awful bachelor party he was never allowed to mention the name Leo Pizzola to Marta again. He’d discovered that much the next day at the wedding. Franco was angry too, of course, because of the fight in Grosseto the night before. But eventually Franco had let go of his anger. Once, when they were drunk and melancholy, Franco had even confessed to Topo that it had been his fault. Sometimes he and Franco would reminisce and wonder what Leo might be up to. They knew he was in America . . . somewhere, and they would occasionally pretend that someday they would get out of Santo Fico too. They would join Leo in America, just like they used to dream of doing when they were boys . . . someday. But they could never talk like that when Marta was around. When Marta was around, Leo’s name was not to be mentioned. Neither Topo nor Franco ever knew about Leo standing at Marta’s window the night before the wedding. She never told anyone. So, of course Topo didn’t understand. He just knew that the English tourists were now talking among themselves and pointing at Leo and nodding. Sometimes Marta’s bitterness made things damn inconvenient.
Leo and Marta continued to stare at each other in silence. Leo was waiting for Marta. It was her hotel, after all. But at that moment Marta was busy hating Leo’s battered Panama hat, and his wrinkled suit, and his stupid mustache, and everything else about him. He looks ridiculous, she thought, in that shabby suit, with that ugly green tie, and that stupid yellow hankie—he looks like a faded Italian flag.
Marta called down the bar, “Carmen, did he pay for this wine?”
“Yes, Mama,” Carmen lied without hesitation.
She eyed him for another moment. “Nice suit.”
He nodded a bit too smugly, and for an instant thought he was about to get slapped as Marta’s hand shot toward him. But, to his embarrassment, she merely pulled a long blade of razor grass out from under his coat lapel.
“What’ve you been doing, crawling through a field?” His common sense argued with his panic—there was no way she could know about him crawling through the field! Leo struggled to control the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth as Marta pressed on.
“Have you asked Uncle Elio about this?”
From the cloud of guilt that crossed Leo’s expression, Marta read the answer. The idiot hadn’t so much as spoken to Father Elio. He’d simply plowed ahead with this whole elaborate thing without having spoken even a word to the old priest.
“I didn’t think so,” she chuckled mirthlessly—and Leo fought the image of Marta cackling with laughter as she gleefully shoveled dirt on his grave. In less than a minute and with about three short sentences, she had established her authority over him, identified a secret sin, and pointed out the major flaw in his scheme. The thought occurred to him that if it were only a hundred years earlier, he could have her burned as a witch, no problem. She was frighteningly correct about one thing though—there was a chance Father Elio wouldn’t give his permission.
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Fortunately for Leo, the guide was approaching and their exchange was to be cut short. Marta spoke quickly, biting her words under her breath.
“I know what you’re doing and I don’t like it. If I didn’t have these people . . . I’d tell you how much! You’ve got two minutes, then you get the hell out of my hotel.” She turned smoothly and smiled to the guide just as he stepped up, “Signore, the desserts are ready. Zabaglione and coffee. We’ll bring them right out.”
“Good . . .”
And Marta disappeared into the kitchen without giving Leo another look.
The guide was delighted to hear about the desserts, but that wasn’t why he’d come over.
“It seems that some people in my party liked your story.” He smiled broadly and quoted Leo, “The shrine of the Miracle and the splendor of the Mystery of Santo Fico—That was good. These people, they’re interested in seeing these sights. . . If you’re not too busy . . . Maybe you could give them a personal tour?”
Leo’s brow furrowed with concern. He rubbed his un-shaven face wearily and sighed. “This is difficult.”
The guide leaned in and whispered, “I think they’d be willing to pay . . . Maybe a few hundred thousand lire?” and he encouraged Leo with a sly wink.
Leo raised himself to his full height of indignation (which was actually quite tall) and fixed the guide with a glare that struck the poor man with cold fear to his very bowels. It was obvious to everyone in the room that Leo was deciding whether or not to strike this impudent rascal. Those locals who remembered the wild days and the violence that often surrounded Leo and Franco recognized the potential seriousness of the guide’s situation.
In truth, although Leo really didn’t like this pazzo, his mind was racing. Until that moment he hadn’t given any thought to exact figures. The guide’s approach and subsequent proposal were, of course, expected, but now Leo was thankful for this moment of bluff because he had to do some fast calculating.
