by D. L. Smith
He glared at the round man like the great Duke Cosimo himself and frantically tried to work out the numbers in his head . . . Twelve people . . . maybe 20,000 lire a head. That’s, eh . . . 200,000 lire and . . . something. But, twenty-five percent to Topo, and another twenty-five percent to Father Elio . . . that means about 100,000 lire and, eh . . . something . . .
His brain longed for a pencil and paper and just one minute alone. Should he ask for 400,000 lire . . . 400,000 lire! Too much! He tried to remember the rate of exchange for a dollar and his brain screamed, Who cares about dollars? You need pounds . . . ! He lost track of what he was trying to figure out and now people were staring at him. He needed to have an amount in mind before he spoke and everyone was waiting.
The tourists could not, of course, discern the meaning of the unintelligible Italian words that had passed between their cloddish guide and this congenial native. But, to every English eye it was obvious that this good-hearted man who had enthralled them with his story had again been offended—and again it was their fault. The poor British invaders felt a massive stab of national shame for the distress that they seemed to continually cause these kind people.
The local villagers, on the other hand, felt a huge surge of communal pride at how well Leo was directing the ebb and flow of this scene, especially after so many years with no practice. And although they had absolutely no idea what he had said to the English or what was going on right now, they supported his current mood by politely lowering their eyes in respect of the monumental faux pas—whatever it was.
Up to this point everything had gone perfectly. Leo couldn’t recall it ever going this well—even when he and Franco had worked together as boys. But now he needed someone other than the guide to speak, and yet the room remained silent. It occurred to him that maybe he’d over-played it. Maybe all those years ago it had only worked because he was a child.
At the bar Topo wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve and also prayed that someone would speak. Leo might actually have to slap that fellow or worse—leave! What was wrong with these heartless English? But the silence remained abysmal.
Leo had just concluded that he would have to cut his losses when the two horsy ladies at the table he’d first approached prompted their gentleman companion and Leo heard the sound he’d been longing for. The man cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, sir, eh . . . signore . . .”
Leo turned.
The Englishman stepped forward and stuttered, “Signore, I, eh . . . that is, we aren’t quite sure what the . . . difficulty is, but we certainly did not intend to give you any offense. Please, accept our apology.”
“No, no, no, no, no, my friend. You did not offend.” Leo gave a certain edge to the word you and turned a special frown toward the confused guide. The English tourists turned and frowned at him also. Then the villagers turned and frowned at him. But, for the first time all day, Carmen smiled at him. The poor guy stared dumbly at them all.
“I’m afraid you do not’a understand, signore,” said Leo. “Our village is poor, but we are also proud. We do not’a have much in the way of, how you say it . . . opulenza laica. . . eh, worldly wealth. What we do have are two gifts’a from’a God. To pay to see them seems like a, eh . . . the, eh. . . sacrilegio?”
“Sacrilege?”
“Si, the sacrilege. Our priest, Father Elio, a pious man, he would never allow it. I am sorry.”
The faces of the English tourists fell, but suddenly Leo had a brainstorm. He gasped and held up his finger as if to point at the wonderful idea floating over his head. “Unless . . .” he whispered to himself.
He crowded in on the Englishman’s elbow and spoke in a conspiratorial manner—but loudly enough for all to hear.
“Of course, there would’a be nothing wrong with’a my asking Father Elio if I could bring a few of my good friends into the sanctuary and’a share with them our Miracle and our Mystery. Then, if you would’a like, you could’a make a. . . a . . . what do you call . . . a donation . . . to the church! Then I could pass it on to Father Elio, after you have left. Once you are gone, what’a can he say? That is not’a like selling tickets, is it?”
“Certainly not. Nothing like. Just some good friends exchanging . . . gifts.” The horsy Englishman turned to the group and they all nodded affirmatively. A few older men even “Hear, hear”’d. What clever ducks they were.
“How much would you think is . . . I mean, what might be an appropriate . . . donation?”
Now, it is possible for things to go too well. Continued good fortune can often lull a man into carelessness and by this time Leo was feeling almost intoxicated. He had a plan. He had determined a good price. He had done this many times before, and even though he hadn’t practiced in years, some things you just don’t forget. This was no time to improvise. So he couldn’t believe it when he heard those terrible words come pouring out of his own mouth.
“Oh, whatever you think would’a be fair.”
He almost shrieked! He wanted to scream! He wanted to jump up and down and tear his hair! But instead he froze a smile to his lips and waited.
From the end of the bar Topo caught his eye and gave him a wink. Leo thanked God that his friend didn’t understand English because if he knew what Leo had just said, he would be on top of him and ripping at his throat.
The Englishman turned back to his group and there was an interminably long moment of hushed whisperings, nods, grimaces, and secret signs. Leo was tempted to reiterate the poverty of the village, or the piety of Father Elio, or perhaps even his own desperate yearning to escape Santo Fico—but he had to wait it out. He’d rolled the dice—let them fall. Finally, the tall man with the big teeth and wild hair turned around almost apologetically.
“Would, eh . . . five hundred thousand lire be acceptable?”
Their worst nightmare was that they would insult Leo yet a third time, and his reaction frightened them. But, when he was able to breathe again, and had recovered control of his sagging jaw, he whispered words of gratitude with complete and genuine sincerity.
“That is . . . too much.” And he meant it.
There was almost a cheer of relief from the English. “Nonsense,” was the cry as the jovial Brit clapped him on the back.
Leo’s head was spinning. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, but the sight of Marta stepping back in from the kitchen quickly returned him to reality with a sudden urgency. Marta was right. He needed to talk to Father Elio, and quickly. Without Father Elio’s blessing, this magnificent castle he’d just built could abruptly return to sand. So Leo hastily explained to the English that he would go over to the church and make arrangements and when they had finished their desserts, they could join him.
And with a cheerful wave to all, Leo hurried out of the dining room, across the tiny lobby, and out the front door. Within seconds Topo scurried after him.
SIX
The smells of the old church overwhelmed Leo when he first entered—the musty stones, the ages of incense, centuries of smoke from perpetual candles. He stood at the back and leaned against the cool plaster until the light-headedness left him and soon he found himself comfortably anonymous in the dim shadows, as if protected from the outside world by a shaded cloak of invisibility. Was this what a priest felt?
Many times since his return from America, he’d been struck by the plainness of Santo Fico. When he was growing up here, he hadn’t realized how meager everything was— but now it was more than just that. For instance, everything in the village was so much smaller than he remembered and that included this church. As a child, the size of the sanctuary had always impressed him, but years of wandering had taken him to some of the great cathedrals of the world and now he saw everything around him through those experienced eyes. He’d discovered the insignificance of Santo Fico within the first month of his exile. At only nineteen, working in Milano so he might earn enough money for a ticket to America, he saw the white marble spires of the Milano Duomo at sunset and it mad
e him weep. And then in America, even the public shrines of Chicago confirmed the irrelevance of his home . . . After you’ve been to the top of the Sears Tower . . . Why, the entire village of Santo Fico could fit inside Wrigley Field, including this church and its dwarfish bell tower.
America had been the cure. Once he got to America, and especially Chicago, Santo Fico finally became some distant dream that faded over time. For over sixteen years he worked as a drywall hanger for his mother’s brother’s wife’s son, Steve Costello.
The work was hard, but the pay was okay and it wasn’t long before he could afford his own place, and new clothes, and a used car, and finally bars and even dates with women for dinner or a movie. Most important, he could afford to buy tickets to Wrigley Field. Cousin Steve made it perfectly clear that Leo was going to have to learn English and baseball—and for Cousin Steve, baseball meant the Chicago Cubs. With much painful effort Leo did learn English, and discovered, to his delight, he also loved “base’a-ball” and the Cubs. And soon, without even noticing, Santo Fico faded like a morning mist.
But there had been one exceptionally bone-chilling morning last winter when all that he had given up was driven home with biting clarity. The wind blew off Lake Michigan with a special ferocity that day and he spent the morning battling awkward sheets of drywall, first against the wind and then up three flights of stairs. This wasn’t unusual. But on this day, along with the heavy sheets of plaster, he also carried Father Elio’s terrible letter crumpled in his shirt pocket. It was already a year old when it arrived. It had taken his Aunt Sofia that long to track him down. The letter—read and reread throughout the day—told him that he was too late. He had failed. His father had been dead for almost two years and he hadn’t even known. Father Elio’s awkward letter told of how the farm belonged to Leo now and it needed care. Leo didn’t want the farm. He wanted ten minutes with his father. His fellow workers thought his eyes were watering because of the bitter wind.
Now, standing in the shadows at the back of the sanctuary, Leo thought, it’s not just familiarity that breeds contempt— it’s also time. He wondered how he could have ever been impressed with this church. There was nothing remarkable here, and he should know. He recognized every hidden nook and passage in the building. How many times had he darted into the dark passage to his right and clambered the winding stone stairs to the top of the bell tower? As a boy he had loved to explore the world from the open porticoes surrounding the top of the tower. He, Franco, Marta, and Topo spent hours sneaking around the tower, hiding from the adults in the piazza, having spitting contests, but mostly just daydreaming about what lay beyond the edge of their horizon. On some especially clear days, when Isola d’Elba shimmered against the northwest rim of the world, they pretended it was America and devised schemes on how to get there . . . America!
That brought Leo back with a snap. To hell with his childhood. The problem was Father Elio. Of course, he’d seen the old priest a few times since his return and they had talked. Father Elio was friendly enough, but he always seemed to want to say something difficult to Leo or maybe he wanted Leo to confess something painful to him. In either case, he made Leo uncomfortable. But that didn’t matter now.
It took only a quick glance to see that the old priest wasn’t in the sanctuary and Leo would have to search him out. Within arm’s reach was a carved stone basin and its shallow splash of holy water. Leo considered performing the ritual before entering the sanctuary, but no one was watching, so what would be the point.
Walking quickly down the middle aisle, Leo glanced up at the ceiling—always his favorite part of the sanctuary. Surrounding the long inner chamber and supported by opposing rows of brawny stone piers, high walls held a series of leaded windows placed in such a way as to capture the best light of the day. He stopped in front of the familiar altar that rose modestly above the smooth, worn benches at the heart of the chamber. A simple chandelier of candles and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling haloed the altar. At the eastern end of the room a semicircular apse was highlighted with five soiled, but colorful, stained glass windows. Below the windows reclined a small Pietà statue, crudely carved from laminated layers of cedar some hundreds of years ago.
Leo stood midway between two small transepts that invited parishioners in for solitary meditation. To his left, the northern transept was a small alcove buried in shadows and guarded by a crude wooden railing. Leo deliberately ignored it. He knew that hidden behind the shadows of the piers— shrouded by both the darkness and probably one of Father Elio’s old blankets—was the Mystery of Santo Fico. He hadn’t seen it in eighteen years, but he’d thought about it. Now, standing this close to it again, he silently cursed himself for his thoughts—and cursed God for tricking him into returning to this place. If he really wanted to get out of Santo Fico, there was his ticket. Could be worth a fortune, the man had said. He’d just need a truck. He could steal a truck. Yeah, all he needed was a truck . . . And a day or two when no one would notice him removing a small portion of the church’s northern wall! Pointless! He needed to find Father Elio—and fast.
Two oak doors mirrored each other from their opposite sides of the nave. The northern door on his left led to a garden that was part of the original monastery. Although, for many centuries now it had been less of a garden and more a courtyard designed to protect the Miracle: the blessed Shrine of the Withered Fig. Leo knew how much time Father Elio spent in prayer before the shrine—the old priest might be out there.
To his right was the vestry door where he and Franco had spent so many hours as altar boys preparing Father Elio for mass. In America, sometimes when he’d been drinking, he used to joke about being “the best damn altar boy in Santo Fico.” And it was true. Father Elio had told him so.
Beyond the vestry was a low corridor that led to the kitchen and Father Elio’s rooms and it was through the open stone passageway that Leo heard voices and he recalled seeing Nina carrying lunch across the piazza.
Lunch was Father Elio’s favorite meal. Breakfast was just a cup of coffee and some fried bread with honey or butter. Dinner too seldom varied: hot tea, fruit, cheese, bread, sometimes an egg. These two meals he prepared for himself, but lunch was a different matter. Not only was it the largest meal of the day, but it was also prepared by his niece, Marta, and her cooking was famous in the region.
Exactly when meals started arriving at the back door of the church was something that neither Marta nor Father Elio could recall specifically. Marta’s mother, Katrine, swore she only cooked for her brother-in-law because watching him slowly starve himself to death with his own cooking was just too cruel. Eventually Marta took over the responsibility and Father Elio never questioned her arrival, because Marta was family, the youngest daughter of his only brother, Young Giuseppe. For the girls, cooking for Great-Uncle Father Elio was not something Carmen or Nina ever wondered about either. And while Father Elio loved the meals Marta fixed, he could have cooked for himself if necessary, but this was family. Besides, the food was not the best part of the arrangement. The best part was that Marta or Carmen or Nina brought it to him, and each was his favorite for a different reason.
Elio liked it when Marta brought the basket because she was old enough to remember family things. Most of his family—brother, sisters, father, mother—were all dead. The three women of the Albergo di Santo Fico were all the family that remained and Marta was the only one old enough to share some of his memories. When she brought lunch they chattered about her parents and grandparents, or people and happenings from their past. Although he did wish she wasn’t always so serious. A few older villagers occasionally mentioned her seriousness, but only because they remembered her as a child—a high-spirited, beautiful girl with boundless energy and an infectious laugh. Someone who knew her then would have a hard time recognizing the humorless, slightly dangerous woman of today. It had to do with disappointment and Father Elio understood some of it.
There had been the death of Elio’s older brother, Marta’
s father, Young Giuseppe. He was called Young Giuseppe right up until his death at seventy-one. He died on a Sunday morning in late spring while weeding a bed of ripe parsley. Elio often thanked God that his older brother had lived such a full life and died such a tranquil death. Marta was grief-stricken, of course, but her mother, Katrine, was desolate. From the day Young Giuseppe died Katrine began making her own funeral plans and in less than a year, showing commendable determination and resolve, Katrine did precisely what she intended. She followed Young Giuseppe. Although Marta was profoundly saddened by her mother’s death, she certainly wasn’t surprised.
Franco was a story that Elio didn’t understand, but whenever the subject came up, such a dark cloud crossed his niece’s already dark eyes that he knew this was not something he should explore.
Franco died two years after Katrine and three years after Young Giuseppe. Carmen was six and Nina was only four. It all happened so fast. Everyone knew Franco was too wild on his motorcycle, but it still came as a shock—in the middle of the night, Franco was drunk, and then there was that woman with him. She died too. For months, Marta looked as if she’d been run over by a truck or crushed by some great weight. Everyone in the village expected Marta to crumble to pieces, but she didn’t. Instead she turned to stone. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, she didn’t even weep and this is something that the women in the village look for and expect. Most of her neighbors attributed it to the fact that she had a hotel and restaurant to manage, and two small children to care for and what with the little one going blind. People told each other that she didn’t have time to weep or that the shock had not hit her yet. In six months she would collapse. But six months has come and gone many times and Marta still does not weep.
Father Elio also liked it when Carmen brought the lunch because Carmen was young and vivacious. She was like a breath of fresh air, although he did occasionally catch a faint scent of brimstone on the breeze. There was that touch of wickedness in Carmen that all men immediately recognized and Father Elio was no exception. He was her great-uncle, and a priest, and an old man, but he was neither a fool, blind, nor dead. He saw the way she greeted the men of the village as she passed them in the street; the way she tossed her hair and laughed and smiled at them, her dark eyes peering slyly out from beneath her brows. He saw the way the young men, and many older ones too, reacted to his great-niece’s charms and he was grateful that the fountain in the center of the piazza had long ago gone dry. If it were still filled with water, he was certain that some local idiots would be in serious danger of drowning as Carmen glided across the square.
