by D. L. Smith
They spent the remainder of the afternoon at Topo’s kitchen table, debating the merits of an assortment of possible divine events. They tried to keep their discussion on a respectfully high spiritual plane, confining any potential miracles to something with an established scriptural foundation, but their familiarity with biblical events was fairly random and what they could recall was sketchy at best. Consequently, they both kept unintentionally reverting to their most familiar exposures to things supernatural. As a result, Topo’s miracles were too often reminiscent of science fiction movies of the 1950s, whereas Leo’s miracles almost leapt off the pages of American tabloid newspapers—and unfortunately a couple of bottles of wine didn’t help their inspiration or their temperament. By late afternoon a frightened and discouraged Topo suggested that it was time for Leo to go home.
The sun was passing from afternoon into evening when Leo stomped up the street leading away from Topo’s shop. Who would have thought creating a miracle could be so difficult? At this point he wasn’t sure who he was angriest with—Marta for her unreasonable demand that he produce a miracle, or Father Elio for his pointless hunger strike, or Topo for not asking him to stay for dinner. His frustrated march carried him halfway across the piazza before he noticed that he’d walked into the middle of a gauntlet.
Just ahead, Father Elio was on the steps of the church talking with Marta. The front doors of the church were open and it was evident that the old man had been hauling out the debris of the fractured roof. Apparently he wanted to continue his efforts, but no matter where the old priest turned, Marta stayed in front of him, holding out a basket that had to be filled with food and pleading for whatever was inside. Finally the old priest took Marta by the arm and gently turned her back toward the hotel. That’s when they both saw Leo. Marta glared at him, but Father Elio smiled and waved as they descended the steps.
To make matters worse, Leo noticed Nonno sitting on the edge of the fountain. A wide bandage wrapped his forehead, there was an ugly bruise below one eye, and scratches, and he leaned on the newly borrowed cane as if he always had. The gray dog was asleep at his feet. Leo glanced at the old man out of the corner of his eye. Nonno was watching him and Leo could tell that the slightest provocation would bring him over. Any conversation with Nonno in the presence of Marta and Father Elio could prove awkward, and so he did what he could to ignore the old man.
Leo furrowed his brow as if he were the prisoner of deep thoughts and he walked with purposeful determination, his eyes locked on the cobblestones directly in front of his feet. He was sure that if he pretended he hadn’t noticed them, he could make it across the piazza unaccosted. But also unfortunately for him, it occurred to Father Elio that a conversation with Leo might be the very thing to get Marta to stop pestering him. He loved his niece and he understood her concern, but the excellent smells emanating from that basket were beginning to test the resolve of his fast.
“Good evening, Leo.” The old man steered himself and Marta directly into Leo’s path.
“Ahh! Hello . . .” Leo did his best impression of someone jolted out of some heavy deliberation. Marta simply sighed, shook her head, and made Leo feel exceptionally transparent.
At least Father Elio had accomplished his goal. Marta moved away from him and toward the hotel, but now he felt that some small talk was probably in order, so he asked Leo, “How did your place do? I mean, with the earthquake the other night.”
“Oh, fine. Good . . . I was just, um . . . on my way . . .” Leo pointed down the north coast road and backed himself toward his destination. Marta not only didn’t say a word, but refused to even look in his direction, which for some reason made Leo even more nervous. He was just about to turn and go when he was stopped by a familiar voice.
“Hey there, Nico.”
Nonno had left his perch on the fountain and was now, almost magically, standing at Leo’s shoulder. He gave Leo a little wave. “How you doin’, Nico? Where’d you go the other night?”
Leo wanted to grab him and shake him until the few teeth he had left rattled—anything that would make him stop. Instead, he just gave a little nod and a feeble shrug.
“My house fell on me. Remember? You found me. Where’d you go? You promised you’d stay with me.”
The other night Father Elio had been so busy he hadn’t noticed that Leo didn’t return, but Marta knew where he was and Leo could feel her gaze turn to him. This was not good.
“I went to get some lumber so we could get you out.” “You’re a good boy, Nico. I thought you ran out on me. Maybe because of the mountains. But I didn’t desert you. You know that! Even in the snow . . . when . . .”
The old man could tell he was getting jumbled. He had been told that he did that sometimes. So he just gave Leo a wink and a pat on the shoulder. “My house fell on me, but you found me. Right?”
Leo shrugged again and tried to lose the image of Nonno’s dusty face buried in the rubble with the dirt and blood and tears mingling with his trusting smile. He had deserted him, but he hadn’t thought of it in those terms until now. Of course, Marta hadn’t known about Nonno at all—until now, and the thought that Leo had abandoned that old man, buried in the rubble of his house, so he could steal the Mystery from the church, left her feeling a little sick. She wanted to hit him again, or scream at him some more, but she contented herself with just watching him fidget.
Father Elio was tired, so he bid them all good evening, explaining that it was time for him to go back to the church and pray. Marta nodded and as her uncle walked back toward the church she took a moment to catch Leo’s eye. It was just a glance, but in her look Leo saw that there was something more than just anger. It was disgust. She stepped close to him and her voice was barely a whisper and as indifferent as a breeze.
“Three days. If you haven’t done something to restore my uncle’s faith in three days, I’m calling the police. Three days. Then, I’ll do anything I have to do to make sure you’re punished for what you’ve done. Three days.”
Without another look she strode across the piazza and disappeared into the hotel at about the same moment Father Elio vanished into the church. Leo was left alone in the center of the piazza with Nonno and the gray dog. He didn’t want to look at Nonno because he knew if he did, the old man was going to talk to him and he especially didn’t want to talk to him right now. He was too angry with the old fool for mentioning the other night in front of Marta, and he was also angry with Marta for her new ultimatum, and he was angry with himself for not yet having contrived a miracle that he could have tossed in her face. So, without acknowledging Nonno in any way, Leo walked across the piazza and down the street to the north coast road.
He was sorry about deserting the old man the other night, of course, and he was glad that he was all right, but Nonno was not his problem. All he had wanted to do was walk across the piazza! Why couldn’t Nonno just shut up? Now, Marta was ready to serve him his head on a platter, roasted with sage and sweet basil, if he didn’t make a miracle in three days. Three days! For the first time since he’d “rescued” the fresco, he fancied he heard the clang of prison doors in that phrase—“Three days!” He needed to think. He needed a miracle that couldn’t be denied even by the biggest skeptic. He needed an event to happen in front of witnesses. He needed something unexpected, something impossible. He needed . . . He needed . . . He needed to know why the hell Nonno was following him down the north coast road!
They were all the way to the outskirts of Santo Fico before Leo noticed the shuffling sounds behind him. Nonno and that gray dog were following about twenty meters back. When Leo stopped and turned to them, they stopped—both looking casually preoccupied with something else. With renewed determination Leo turned and again walked down the road toward home, but he knew immediately that his personal nightmare and his damn dog were still following. So he stopped again. Nonno stopped also and busied himself by absently pushing pebbles off the road with his new cane, but the dog missed his cue and kept walking. W
hen he discovered his error he went back and flopped down in the warm dust at Nonno’s feet. Leo stomped back up the hill to them.
“What?”
Nonno truly didn’t understand, and he shuffled innocently, looking for something to say.
“What is it?” stormed Leo.
“What is it? I don’t know— What is it, Nico?”
“Look. I’m sorry about the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I’m sorry!”
Nonno smiled and pushed Leo’s shoulder playfully. “Hey, that’s okay. You’re a good boy. You found me!”
“So, what is it? Why are you following me?”
Nonno thought hard for a moment before he said softly, “My house fell on me the other night . . .”
“I know. I found you.”
Leo could tell that there was more to be said, but for some reason the old man didn’t want to say it. It was as if there was something that Leo was supposed to know and Nonno was giving him a chance to say it first. But Leo had no idea what it was that Nonno wanted him to say and so the sun burned down on them as they stood in the road, each watching the other, waiting for the other to say this unspoken thing.
At last Nonno spoke. His eyes avoided Leo’s and his voice was soft and hesitant.
“So . . . I don’t have a place to stay anymore. Can I stay with you, Nico?”
He seemed ashamed and Leo felt worse about making the old man say those words out loud than he did about leaving him buried in the rubble. Buried in the destruction of his little room, Nonno had been a man trapped in a catastrophe, fighting for his life, but still a man. Even buried in the ruins, he had dignity. Now, he was a helpless old thing with a cane standing in the dust of the road asking for charity.
The words came out before Leo even had a chance to think, but they seemed an appropriate end for this day’s fiasco.
“Sure. Come on.”
That night the shepherd’s hut became more crowded than Leo could manage. It wasn’t Nonno’s fault. In fact, the old man turned out to be surprisingly good company. Once the fragments of the Mystery were safely stored under the bed and Nonno was finally allowed inside, Leo was amazed at how amiable the old man could be. Not only was Nonno surprisingly complimentary about every aspect of the ancient hovel and its bare surroundings, but he was especially grateful for the makeshift bed they created for him in the corner. The old man even offered to prepare their evening meal, and to Leo’s delight, his new roommate turned out to be a surprisingly inventive cook.
No, it wasn’t Nonno who strained the limits of hospitality. It was that skinny gray dog, who apparently assumed that Leo’s invitation to Nonno was a package deal. Although Nonno swore that he not only never fed the dog but, in fact, never even saw him eat anything, it was obvious that the dog was eating something. And whatever it was that the dog was eating, it didn’t agree with him. Nonno’s guess was grasshoppers, lizards, and scorpions. The bill of fare was irrelevant, because by about ten o’clock in the evening the dog’s gas had become so potent that Leo stumbled from the small hut gagging for air, his eyes watering. Nonno followed him outside, apologizing for the cur’s ill-mannered behavior. He was used to it, of course, but for strangers it was undoubtedly a bit thick.
What greeted them was a broad moonless sky carpeted with stars and a soft breeze off the sea. It was such a pleasant night that they built a small fire and brought some blankets outside. After a few minutes the dog sheepishly came out too and was forgiven, and then the three of them lay on the ground and stared up at the night sky. Conversation was sparse for a while, but eventually one comment led to another and before long they were discussing this and that. Nonno’s memory and observations startled Leo. Up until then Leo had thought of Nonno as an eccentric to be barely tolerated, then brushed aside as you crossed the piazza. But to Leo’s amazement, Nonno was not only interesting and pleasant company, but filled with stories and adventures. Only occasionally did he catch himself becoming disordered by memories of some vague and cryptic tragedy in some snowy mountains. For the most part he remained relatively lucid, although he did continue to call his host Nico.
It was probably almost midnight when Nonno told the strangest tale of all and yet the one that made the most sense. It was so simple, so logical. It was a variation on a story that Leo, and everyone else in the village, had heard many times before, but always in confused, disconnected fragments. Leo had never heard the old man put all the pieces together before. But now, listening to him tell the story by the campfire, Leo knew he had stumbled on to something exceptional. He had found his miracle.
FOURTEEN
For the first time in his life Elio Caproni was having trouble getting up in the morning. Early morning had always been his favorite time of day; he liked the freshness of the air, the cool emptiness of the piazza, and the blinding sparkle of the morning sun through the sanctuary’s eastern windows. And then, there was that first cup of coffee—one of life’s greatest pleasures.
But for the last few mornings all he wanted was to sleep. He wasn’t waking refreshed and he had to force himself to pull back the covers and stumble to the kitchen. At first he thought it was because of the fast, but he had fasted before. When he was a young man he had joined his predecessor, Father Luigi Scavio, in a fast that lasted two weeks. Maybe it was only ten days, but it was a long time and he could have gone longer, but Father Luigi was old and became too weak. Maybe that was it. Maybe now he was Father Luigi. Maybe now he was just too old to fast. These were not good thoughts to be waking up with and he tried to dismiss them. A cup of coffee and he would be fine.
And sure enough, within the hour (and after another cup of coffee) Father Elio was feeling better. What he needed was a bit of work to take his mind off things. So he spent this morning as he had the last two mornings, hauling the debris of the collapsed ceiling out the great front doors and piling it at the bottom of the steps. He was pleased to find that many of the roof tiles weren’t damaged beyond salvaging. In a few hours he was able to carry most of the remaining debris out and all that remained were some beams that he couldn’t move. He would have to recruit help with them, but there was still a great deal of sweeping. He preferred doing this work in the cool of the morning because the days were so hot—even inside the cathedral, now that it had the gaping hole in the roof. He also confessed to himself that by working outside he didn’t have to look at the way his beautiful little cathedral had suffered.
He was sweeping the front steps when he saw Maria Gamboni walking slowly across the piazza. This was odd because it wasn’t one of Maria’s usual confessional days and Father Elio hoped that Maria wasn’t caught in the grip of some guilt attack and in need of an emergency confession. He didn’t want to go back inside. Now that the sun was shifting he wanted to go around to the north side and see if there was enough shade to work on the crumbled garden wall. Maybe she was just passing by on her way to somewhere else. But Maria walked slowly up to him and sat right down on the stone steps. So Father Elio put down his broom and sat next to her. Maria Gamboni had been a passionate fire of determined guilt for nearly thirty years and Father Elio wasn’t prepared for this sad old woman who sat quietly next to him in the shade of the bell tower.
“What do I have to do, Father?”
“To do?” Father Elio repeated blankly.
“Why won’t God honor my repentance?”
The question was so simple and profound Elio couldn’t speak.
“I’ve prayed for forgiveness every day for thirty years. I’ve confessed my sins thousands of times. I’ve done my penance until my voice is hoarse and my knees are bleeding. You know this is true.”
He nodded. He did know this was true.
“So why won’t God forgive me? What do I have to do? If my Rico isn’t coming home, why can’t I know this? If he is dead, why can’t I know this? What does a person do when the only thing they love in the world refuses to love them back? What do I have to do to get God to listen to me, to forgive me?”
/> Father Elio sat for so long considering Maria Gamboni’s questions, that if they were in the confessional, she would have thought him asleep again. But he wasn’t asleep. He was astounded that she could speak his own thoughts and fears so eloquently. She could see his watery blue eyes were lost in her sad contemplation, but he also seemed lost for an answer.
Finally Maria rescued the awkward moment by pointing a bony finger across the piazza and exclaiming incredulously, “Well, would you look at that? What on earth are they up to?”
The answer to this mundane question was no easier than her previous spiritual one. They watched in silence as Leo Pizzola entered the piazza from the old north coast road, followed by Nonno and then the gray dog. Leo seemed to be in a great hurry and tried to pull Nonno along, but the old man’s new aristocratic limp refused to be rushed. When Leo saw Father Elio and Maria Gamboni watching from the church steps, he smiled and waved uncomfortably. Nonno wanted to tip his cap politely, but Leo impatiently guided the old man across the piazza toward the south road leading down the hill and out the other side of town.
When they were out of sight Maria made a clucking sound with her tongue and said only, “Well, that’s quite a pair.”
“Maria, about what you asked . . . I don’t know what to tell you.”
The old lady stood up and dusted off her black dress. “I know. It’s okay. What would you know about God turning His back on someone? You’re a priest. God loves you.”
She walked down the steps and called over her shoulder, “See you on Thursday.”
Father Elio sat staring at the broom in his hands and thinking about Maria Gamboni’s words. What would he know about God turning his back on someone? He’s a priest. God loves him.
Topo wasn’t sure what upset him the most: that Leo believed Nonno’s peculiar story or that he’d brought that smelly dog into his shop. That dog was looking for a place to pee. But when Topo was finally able to get his mind off the old dog sniffing around his boxes, crates, and pant leg long enough to listen to Nonno’s story, he had to admit he was surprised by what he heard. For as long as he could remember, he’d heard stories about the mysterious history of Santo Fico, but the details of this particular incident Nonno told were new and intriguing . . .
