The Miracles of Santo Fico

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The Miracles of Santo Fico Page 10

by D. L. Smith


  Leo stared into the face of that paradoxical boy/man, saint/God, and his heart raced. He had dreaded this moment since his return. It was that face that had kept him from entering the cathedral for the past six weeks. That face, and the fresco. Now it was in front of him, and again that wondrous face of Saint Francis took his breath away. He stared into those radiant eyes that refused to look at him. They were inviting, confirming, accusing. That damned enigmatic mouth that seemed to be smiling just at him, as if they two were sharing a secret. But Leo smiled back as if to say, “I know you. You’re no mystery to me.” Then Leo took a deep breath and forced his gaze away from the saintly face. He and Topo and Saint Francis shared a secret and there was nothing to do about it. So, he studied the rest of the picture that he knew so well.

  Gathered around the fig tree were seven other figures: four characters to the left, three to the right. Of the four on the left, one was a beggared supplicant who knelt, reaching out to Saint Francis. Behind him, three disciples huddled together and conversed in an excited, expressive way about things that were undoubtedly profound. Leo guessed they were disciples because they wore the same robes of brown homespun as their master and their hair was cut in the same saintly tonsure.

  To the right of the tree, three other figures were likewise occupied. One appeared to be a shepherd, for he held a crook in his hand and two sheep were at his feet. An aged man with snow-white hair and beard, an unpretentious face, and pale blue eyes looked upward in astonishment and adoration. The other two figures at his side appeared to be more poor supplicants awaiting an audience and probably, hopefully, miracles from Saint Francis. One leaned painfully on a crutch and the other, with rags covering his eyes, appeared to be blind. And in the cobalt sky above this assemblage was a tight array of three angels with golden robes and white wings. This was the apex of the triangle that surrounded and pointed to the blessed saint beneath the blessed tree. And beyond the angels, seven silver stars twinkled in the night-blue sky.

  It’s hard to say how long the group of cultured English tourists and uncomplicated villagers stood together in whispered silence in front of the fresco.

  Fortunately, while the English tourists stayed occupied with the Miracle and the Mystery, their beleaguered guide had also been successful. A hurried run down the winding street to the harbor had led him to Carlo Serafini, captain of the trawler Emilia. The old fisherman, who hadn’t been more than a mile out of the harbor in years, could still tell when something swam into his net. He charged the desperate guide an outrageous amount for two big buckets of diesel fuel and then charged him again for a ride back up the hill in his old truck. By the time the troop of English pilgrims finally left the coolness of the church, they’d almost forgotten what was awaiting them. Stepping out of the quiet shadows into the blazing afternoon sun, the blast of heat almost roared at them.

  The tour group noticed that their bus driver was a bit greasier than usual and reeked of diesel fuel, but they didn’t care. It was enough that they were finally going to be on their way again. They might even be in Piombino in time for a cool bath, a change of clothes, and an evening stroll along the bay before dinner.

  Leo stood at the door of the little bus bidding farewell to his new friends and accepting their thanks and good wishes. At last the tall Englishman with the large teeth and wild shock of salt-and-pepper hair stepped forward, placed one hand on Leo’s shoulder, and thanked him heartily. As the two men shook hands Leo could feel a wad of bills being pressed into his palm. How discreet. How tactful. How British. With sincere thanks he prudently slipped the money into his trouser pocket without counting it. Trust was a valued thing in such an arrangement.

  Then, with the transaction complete, the tall fellow climbed on board and the door closed. With a cough of foul smoke, the bus roared to life, circled the piazza once, and headed down the bumpy street out of town. The few locals that had stayed to watch the spectacle to the final curtain waved farewell as the bus disappeared down the hill. At Punta Ala they would pick up a comparatively decent road that skirted the Golfo di Follonica all the way to Piombino.

  After a moment the dust settled and even the rumble of the engine was gone. All that remained was a silence broken by the distant yapping of startled dogs protesting the bus passing their yards. Then even the dogs went back to sleep. People returned to their homes and humdrum returned to Santo Fico.

  Leo was finally able to count the cash. Trust is a valued thing, but so is accurate bookkeeping. In a quick check he discovered an extra hundred thousand lire. A mistake? A tip? It didn’t matter—they were gone. Leo quickly glanced around. Marta was eyeing him from behind the hotel’s dark windows. Father Elio stood on the steps of the church waiting for him, and Topo was already scurrying across the piazza for his cut. He quickly shoved the extra bills in his pocket and hoped the surreptitious move wasn’t noticed. It wasn’t like he needed to hide anything, but why raise questions?

  From inside the hotel, Marta watched the bills disappear into Leo’s pocket and sighed. “Typical.”

  Why had he returned to Santo Fico? She’d reached a point in her life, after years of hard work and denial, where her disappointments had almost stopped hurting. She had carefully closed door after door to her heart, shutting out things, memories, and people who were reminders of her mistakes. She had embraced a kind of gray numbness that was preferable to red rage or black despair. And she certainly didn’t need this memento of her greatest blunder walking back into town.

  She watched Topo run over to his old friend and banter about something—probably the money. Suddenly the small man’s face fell and then turned crimson. Marta knew this exchange by heart, but she hadn’t seen it played out in many years and she couldn’t help smiling. Leo was telling Topo that the cheap foreigners shortchanged them, or that Topo misunderstood the fee, or that he’d expected too much, or that Topo wanted more than his share—anything to torment the little mouse. And with each irritating claim Topo became more agitated, dancing around an unruffled Leo, who remained seemingly unaware of his friend’s dilemma. She laughed in spite of herself when Topo finally stomped his foot and she saw him mouth those familiar words, “Be fair!” That was the finale. Leo handed his friend a wad of bills and after a quick count, Topo’s whoop for joy echoed around the piazza. Marta even heard it from behind the glass in the still messy dining room.

  Topo waltzed around him as Leo walked across the piazza to the steps of the church and when Father Elio received his share, he first slapped Leo on the back and followed that up with a warm embrace—which irritated Marta even more. All of these people being so nice to Leo was only encouraging him to stay longer.

  The sound of Carmen’s laughter in the kitchen pulled Marta back to reality. To hell with Leo Pizzola. He wasn’t going to spoil her day. It had been a good afternoon. She’d made enough money to take the pressure off for some weeks, but more important, she’d had Carmen and Nina working by her side in the kitchen and they’d even laughed together a few times. Marta allowed herself to hum a small tune as she returned to collecting dessert plates and coffee cups. Why not hum? The lunch had been a victory. They made money. She and her daughters had laughed together like the old days. The afternoon had been quite a success.

  Father Elio was having similar thoughts as he returned to the coolness of his sanctuary. What a wonderful afternoon, he thought. First the strangers arrive, which forced Marta to change her lunch menu. Then Leo brings the foreigners in to see the Miracle and the Mystery, which hasn’t happened in many years—even since before Leo ran away. And so many villagers came too. And finally, what a nice surprise it was that the English paid Leo more than they agreed on. But really, 500,000 lire was too much.

  The old man made his way down the northern transept to the Mystery and switched off the lights. He considered returning the light bulbs to his bath and bedroom, but decided not yet. He wouldn’t place the blanket back over the fresco either. He would leave it uncovered and tonight he would turn the light
s back on so everyone could see the Mystery again.

  Yes, the money was a wonderful blessing, but it wasn’t the best part of the afternoon. The best was that his old church had been filled with people. Well . . . maybe not filled, but there had certainly been more people than he’d seen in a long time and many of them were villagers. True, they were a bit sheepish about missing church for so many months—or years. But had he gone too far? Had he become too swept up in the excitement of the moment? As the foreigners were departing, he’d announced to all of his neighbors that there would be a special mass this night. Why did he do that? What had possessed him to say that? The words just came flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. The amazing part was they all promised they would return . . . sort of. At any rate, many of them did . . . or rather some of them nodded and said they would try to attend. Now, wouldn’t that be wonderful—to actually have people attending mass again. This was the kind of afternoon that made him think that someday God might actually forgive him.

  It was a rare occasion when Topo found himself in complete accord with both Marta and Father Elio, but that was the case today—what a wonderful afternoon. This was the first time since Leo’s return that he felt their old kinship. For six weeks, the talk in the village about “that young Pizzola’s return” had been generally unfavorable. Most people found him “standoffish,” or “arrogant,” or “dangerous,” or filled with “stuck-up American ways,” or he just “talked funny.” Topo knew differently. Leo was unhappy. He was homesick and talked incessantly about selling that run-down farm and going back to Chicago. But today was different. Today was like old times, only much better. In the old days Topo was on the perimeter watching Leo and Franco. Then he was an outsider who could only watch as they split the money. But today, he had performed Franco’s job . . . sort of. It didn’t matter if he didn’t do all that Franco used to do, he sure received more money than Franco ever did.

  And his joy was increased by Leo’s joy. This was the first time he’d seen his old friend really happy since his return. Until today, he’d forgotten how infectious Leo’s smile could be. His sad eyes and long face tended to occasionally make him look like he was trapped somewhere between being dangerous and dull-witted. But when he smiled, Leo’s face exploded with such sincere innocent pleasure that any observer was forced to smile too. And that’s what had happened to Topo. After Father Elio had disappeared into the church with his share of the fee, Leo had turned to Topo wearing a grin so expansive that at first it actually frightened the little man. But Leo just hooked his arm inside Topo’s and suddenly pulled his small friend around in circles, dancing a clumsy yet spirited jig. Their whoops echoed around the piazza as they shook their respective wads of bills in each other’s face. Topo relished that moment of gaiety more than he could say.

  From their trusty places by the fountain, Nonno and the gray dog watched Leo’s and Topo’s antics as if the revelers’ brains had gone sour.

  But Topo’s joy at their renewed camaraderie really only lasted until Leo abruptly stopped dancing and announced enthusiastically, “I have a great idea!”

  It was impossible for Topo to hide his fear. From earliest memory, Leo’s great ideas—in Topo’s considered opinion— were often ill conceived, usually impetuous, and almost always dangerous. He also knew that he was ultimately going to go along with it. He couldn’t resist that smile. He couldn’t resist the enthusiasm. He couldn’t resist the brotherhood. He was doomed.

  His heart sank even deeper when Leo followed his announcement of an idea with a joyously loaded question.

  “Does your truck have gas?”

  Doomed!

  EIGHT

  The western horizon still clung to a warm orange glow when Marta finally finished her preparations for the next day and turned out the lights in her spotless kitchen. Things would be back to normal tomorrow—six or seven lunches not counting Uncle Elio, then beer in the afternoon and wine in the evening. As she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms she heard music; Nina was listening to the radio. An orchestra was playing a song that Marta knew once upon a time. It was a familiar melody attached to some pleasant memory—what was it? She couldn’t recall.

  When she reached the hallway and turned the corner, she was hit with a wall of hot, stale air. The kitchen had been warm, but compared to the stifling upstairs the downstairs was balmy. Sleep was going to be difficult tonight. She remembered nights like this when she was a little girl. Her father, Young Giuseppe—sometimes with the help of Uncle Elio—would haul old mattresses up from the basement and spread them across the grass in the backyard. As soon as those musty mattresses were on the grass Marta and her sister, Rosa, would be leaping from one to the other, pretending they were islands of safety in some magical sea of boiling acid or craggy mountaintops surrounded by plunging chasms. In either case, one misstep meant certain death. Then their mother, Katrine, would scold them—but always Rosa more than Marta because she had fourteen more months of good sense than her younger sister. Katrine was convinced that those old mattresses were filled with every disease of every former guest that ever spent a night under the hotel’s roof dating back to whatever Caproni ancestor had made this villa his own—not to mention the legions of bugs that lived in the basement. Until all those filthy mattresses were covered with clean sheets, Katrine insisted that everyone stay off!

  Those were wonderful nights. Marta’s father would build a fire and neighbors would come over and drink wine and sing. They would play bocce until it was too dark to see and then play some more. Then the whole family would lie out under the black sky waiting for shooting stars and talking far into the night.

  After Young Giuseppe and Katrine died, and Rosa had married and moved to Cecina, when it was just herself and Franco and the girls, sometimes, on hot evenings, Marta would try to convince Franco that they should sleep in the backyard. But he only complained that dragging those filthy old mattresses out of the basement was too much work and they would only regret it when the morning sun shone in their eyes. Then later, as Marta and the girls lay upstairs tossing and sweating through the night, she would hear Franco’s motorcycle start and then disappear down the road. Apparently Franco had his own solution for beating the heat. But all that was a long time ago and Marta was too tired to think about Franco tonight.

  There were no lights on upstairs as she poked her head in Nina’s bedroom and her eyes quickly adjusted to the glow of the radio on the other side of the room. Marta could make out the silhouette of her younger daughter sitting by the open window. This night wouldn’t offer much relief from the heat for some hours yet, but by the window there was at least a little breeze coming in off the sea. Nina sat there in her thin nightgown, diligently working at her tatting and she spoke without breaking the rhythm of the little needle.

  “Are you going to bed?”

  It always amazed Marta that no matter how silent she attempted to be it was never enough.

  “Yes. Where’s your sister?”

  “In her room I think.”

  “Don’t stay up too late.”

  Marta looked down the hall. The living room was dark and silent. It was strange that at this time of the evening, in the summer, Carmen wasn’t lying on the cool floor in front of the television. Across the hall, the door to Carmen’s room was shut and there was no light showing, so Marta quietly opened the door a crack and peeked in. The moon was rising in the east and in the pale blue light streaming through the open window Carmen was visible in her bed. The sheet was pulled up and her thick black hair spilled across the white pillow. Her breathing was deep and steady.

  Marta silently closed the door and walked on down the hall. She considered watching some television herself, maybe something that might make her laugh. But she was too tired. Instead, she went into her bedroom and dropped back onto the bed without turning on the light and she was immediately sorry she had done that. It was going to be difficult getting back up again. The day had been so busy that she’d forgotten to open
the upstairs windows in the afternoon and that’s why it was so stifling.

  Forcing herself off the bed, she opened both sets of tall windows and welcomed a soft evening breeze. She stood for a moment allowing the cool air to wash over her. Maybe she should draw a bath. A bath would be wonderful. Maybe she should just shed all her clothes and sit in front of the dark window. Or maybe she should just run naked through the streets of Santo Fico until she reached the harbor. Then she could dive into the sea and swim and swim toward that dark crimson line in the west. She didn’t have the strength to laugh at her foolishness. Besides, she probably couldn’t even run all the way to the harbor anymore. The bath was a better idea.

  She wondered how Carmen could possibly sleep under that sheet. Her room was every bit as hot as Marta’s was. She must have been tired. She’d worked hard all day and had been especially helpful in cleaning up this evening, but still, to sleep under that sheet . . .

  Her musings were disturbed by an almost comically familiar sound from off in the distance. An old motor scooter was painfully making its way up the steep road. It sounded like Salvatore Puce, that unpleasant young man from Grosseto who brought the mail two times a week, but what would that greasy little porco deficiente be doing here now? She didn’t like the way that pimply little pervert looked at Carmen, but more than that she didn’t like the way Carmen insisted on flirting with him.

  The sound of the scooter stopped not a hundred meters down the road.

  It was a good thing Carmen was in her room so early . . . asleep . . . with the door closed . . . and with the sheet pulled up to her neck!

  Marta leapt away from the window like a bolt of lightning and was across her room and down the hall like rolling thunder.

 

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