The Miracles of Santo Fico

by D. L. Smith

  As he passed a vicolo, the narrow passageway between two buildings, something caught the corner of his eye that made him stop and step back. At the other end of the tight alley Carmen was leaning against a wall while that strange greasy kid who brought the mail over from Grosseto leaned in on her. It wasn’t a big mystery why she was hiding in the vicolo. Not only was she smoking, but also she was letting that boy put his hands on her. It was all done as adolescent trifling with lots of joking and pushing, but still, she was letting him touch her. In the brief moment that Leo observed them he could see that Carmen felt she was in control, but when she saw Leo watching her, her first reaction was fear. That passed quickly though and then she boldly returned Leo’s gaze and puffed the cigarette. Her look was defiant, daring him to do or say something. Leo wasn’t close enough to see that Carmen had been crying. Solly Puce looked over too, and when he saw Leo coldly staring at him he stepped away from Carmen, hitched up his pants, went through an odd gyration that Leo didn’t understand, and shouted something unintelligible.

  For all of the hard feelings and disappointments Leo felt about Franco Fortino, still they had once been best friends and this was Franco’s older child. Leo knew in his heart that he should walk down the alley and beat the crap out of that creepy kid, just because that’s what Franco would have wanted him to do. But before he could move, Carmen tossed her cigarette down, grabbed Solly by the shirt, and pulled him around the corner. He could hear their laughter.

  At the hotel Leo stood in the kitchen door and waited. Marta wasn’t there. He knocked and called her name and was about to leave when Marta appeared at the top of the stairs. She had the distracted manner of someone lost in looking for something important.

  “Oh, it’s you. What? What do you want?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure. Yeah. What do you want?” She was agitated about something and this time it wasn’t him.

  “I need you to bring Father Elio to the hotel tonight and keep him here, away from the church, until about ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock? That’s late for him. I don’t know . . . Why? What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry. But tonight, sit at the table so you can see the window. When we’re ready, I’ll come to the window and wave at you. Then you let him go home.”

  “How am I going to keep him here until ten o’clock?” The question was rhetorical. There was something else on Marta’s mind and as she walked him through the kitchen to the back door Leo hoped that she’d heard all he had said.

  “Tell him there’s something important you need to talk to him about.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Talk about something important. Hey! Have you seen Carmen?”

  Leo was halfway across the yard, but her frightened voice betrayed what was plaguing her mind. He thought of the beautiful Carmen with Solly Puce leaning up against her, rubbing his hand down her side and laughing wickedly in her ear and now he really wished he had beaten the boy when he had the chance.

  “No . . . Well, I think maybe I saw her down the hill a few minutes ago.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t think so.”

  Walking from the yard, Leo heard an old Vespa sputter to life down the hill. Everyone in the village knew the sound of that motor scooter.

  Marta ran to the back fence and called down the empty alley, “Carmen Fortino! You come back here! Carmen!”

  The sound of the Vespa faded into the distance and Marta wanted to howl at the sky. Why had she fought with Carmen again? And about nothing! It was so stupid. If Carmen would come back right now she would tell her she was sorry. She would hold her in her arms like when she was little, or yell at her and shake her and then hug her—maybe all at the same time. As usual, the events of her life swirled madly around her, ignoring all of her attempts to order them, and she felt helpless.

  Yes, she would talk to Father Elio tonight and it would be about something important.

  EIGHTEEN

  For the first time in many weeks, when the sun went down, a cool breeze rolled in off the sea and bumped into the mountains behind Santo Fico. It wasn’t by any means cold, or even chilly—just cool. And it didn’t affect much of anything except to fill certain low gullies in the coastal hills with a misty ground fog. Topo discovered this phenomenon as he was busy hiding his extension cords in the trees behind the church and he wanted to leap and shout for joy. Mist! Of course! What a marvelous special effect! For Topo, the appearance of mist was the next best thing to a heavenly endorsement of his miracle.

  Marta had come by the church at about nine and asked her uncle Elio if she could talk to him about something that was troubling her, but she wanted him to come back to the hotel with her because she was waiting for Carmen to come home. Everything she said was true and Elio could see her distress, so he went along with her.

  From the shadows at the corner of the south road, three lurking figures watched Marta and her uncle cross the piazza and disappear into the hotel. Then the lurkers, loaded with armfuls of equipment, dashed toward the back of the church. Topo carried his roll of extension cord directly to the church’s kitchen door. He knew precisely where to plug it in because Father Elio always let him use the outlet just inside the door whenever he wanted to show his movies for the village. This time however, instead of running the cord back around to the piazza, Topo took it behind the church and disappeared into the trees.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Topo and Leo had surveyed this grove of cedar, pine, and oak trees, looking for the perfect spot for an angelic encounter. Topo chose a small rise framed by three pine trees—it had a sort of cinematically biblical quality. He also liked it because a massive clump of bushes at the foot of the rise made the mound inaccessible from the trail that Father Elio would have to follow. Topo didn’t like the idea of Father Elio getting caught up in the moment and wanting to touch or talk to the Angel. This miracle wouldn’t stand that kind of scrutiny. The bushes and the rise would be a perfect barrier and they were also good for what Topo had in mind for the “special effects.” So it was to that place that Leo lugged the movie projector.

  Angelica seemed to be having an awful time seeing in the dim light and she was terribly worried about her costume, and her makeup, and her hair, and remembering her lines. And since Topo was busy with other things, she requested Leo’s assistance to help her negotiate a path through the bushes and up to the mount of the three pines. Leo had already come to the conclusion that their Angel was in serious need of glasses and just wouldn’t admit it.

  At the base of the rise, Topo was suffering through an old artistic quandary—how best to light a celestial vision. He’d just sort of taken it for granted that he would side-light because that was traditional. But that was before there was this fantastic ground fog. Maybe back lighting? There was a lot of back lighting in modern movies and it would be a wonderful effect with the ground fog. After all, he wanted this to be a miracle! This had to be an angelic ascendancy! Topo had just decided on the ethereal power of back lighting when he glanced up the rise just as Angelica removed her dark cloak. The long, creamy nightgown they had chosen shimmered in the fading light and he recalled their afternoon together.

  Topo had used alleys and back streets to get to Angelica’s shop and even checked for prying eyes before he ducked inside. His secrecy had nothing to do with their project. In his mind there was something so overwhelmingly thrilling about Angelica Giancarlo that even visiting her house made him feel naughty and he feared for his reputation.

  As he stood in Angelica’s tiny shop, he suddenly realized that he had hardly ever spoken to this woman. Oh, as a child he’d followed her down the street laughing and imitating her voluptuous walk. He’d whistled at her from the top of the bell tower and then ducked down and giggled. He’d called suggestive things to her from a safe distance, and then run away. He’d sat in a dark movie theater and worshipped some veiled harem girl with incredible breasts. And as an adult he’d
certainly fantasized that . . . Well . . . He’d certainly fantasized. But this didn’t make them friends. Why did he think he knew her? He didn’t know Angelica Giancarlo at all! But he was certain that she would know him! She would remember him! She wouldn’t know his name, of course, but she would remember his childish taunts and his catcalls and the whistles and the gestures. Oh, my God, the gestures!

  His stomach churned as he nervously stared at the faded sunflowers on the thin cotton curtain, watching for some fluttering that would signal her approach. What had ever possessed him to come here? She surely heard the bell above the door when he entered. In a moment Angelica Giancarlo was going to walk through that curtain, slap his face, and throw him into the street. And he would deserve it.

  Topo was speculating as to whether he could quietly get back out the door and down the street before she saw him, when Angelica swung through the yellow curtain and suddenly they were standing face-to-face. Topo melted into her brown eyes and warm smile. He hadn’t often been this close to her, not when he could actually look at her, and she was so much more beautiful than he’d imagined. Before she had a chance to notice that the poor man was a catatonic mute, Angelica was across the room and holding his hand.

  “Hello, Guido,” she purred sweetly . . . Guiii-doow . . . “It’s so good to see you. I think what you and Leo are doing for dear Father Elio is absolutely wonderful and I’m so honored that you thought of me. Did you know I used to be in the movies? Oh, of course you did . . . But that was so long ago . . .”

  Topo needn’t have worried about carrying his end of the conversation. And he didn’t care anymore—she called him Guido. Of course, she said a great deal more and with great enthusiasm, but Topo didn’t hear. She was so beautiful. And, although still taller than him, she wasn’t as tall as he’d remembered. And she was plumper—not fat, just attractively plump. Quite attractive. And she was so kind and so sincere. And he loved the way she called him Guido.

  She finally asked about a script and Topo pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket. Angelica sat on a small sofa, held the paper just in front of her nose, and slowly read. When she was done, she set the paper in her lap and began to sniff. She said the word, “Beautiful,” and then she sobbed. Topo quietly watched her weep, all the time wondering—where did she get that tissue?

  When she finally recovered, she asked him about costumes and makeup and it became obvious to Topo that she valued his opinion. She spoke to him as if it were his decision as to what she should wear and how she should look. She had ideas about her hair, of course. It should swoop upward toward heaven, yet ring her head like a halo. She would take care of it—after all, hair was her business. As for costume, she had a half-dozen things that might do, but just couldn’t decide. She said, “After all, you’re the director.” Then she took him by the hand and led him through the sunflower curtain.

  After a short trip up some stairs, Topo found himself in the bedroom of Angelica Giancarlo. Spread across her bed were a variety of “costumes.” She spoke quickly and with great enthusiasm, explaining that most of her choices were nightgowns and going through a rapid-fire list of their individual advantages and disadvantages. When Topo asked if she “. . . might have something that was like . . . white and flowing,” she misinterpreted his question as disappointment. With apologies for her limited wardrobe she pulled him into her tiny closet where they stood with their bodies jammed together, while she nonchalantly showed him her racks of clothing. The musty smells of her closet, the exotic mixtures of perfumes and powders, and the closeness of Angelica’s body made Topo both anxious and dizzy. He was almost relieved when they found nothing better in the tiny closet and finally returned to the bedroom and her original six choices.

  Topo eliminated three right off, because the colors were wrong and Angelica was delighted at his decisiveness and discerning eye. But making the final decision was tough. So Angelica offered to show him how they looked.

  Topo sat on a chair by the far wall while she went behind a changing screen in the corner and then, one by one, Angelica Giancarlo modeled each of the three nightgowns just for him. Topo’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak and his hands sweat so much they almost dripped. At first Topo was worried that he might become obviously aroused in front of her and he’d brought no hat to set in his lap. But he soon discovered he was way too nervous for that—although this was by far the most provocative thing that had ever happened to him.

  As Angelica stepped out from behind the screen and stood at the window, she would comment in offhand terms about how she felt each satiny, sheer slip affected her body. She talked matter-of-factly about color and length. Topo only nodded. She saved her favorite for last. It was a loose-fitting, floor-length, cream-colored little number of the sheerest silk. Topo, of course, knew only that it was kind of shiny. It had a yoked neck that exposed more than a hint of cleavage, but it also had tiny sleeves that made it somehow demure. She pointed all of this out before she changed into it, but when she stepped out from behind the screen and stood at the window, the sunlight shining in from behind made the gown all but disappear. Topo gazed in awe as Angelica posed and turned in front of him. She walked slowly back and forth in front of the window, completely oblivious of the effect of the sunlight on her silhouette.

  “So? What do you think?”

  “I like that one,” was the hoarse whisper. Topo heard the words and was pretty sure that it was he who had said them. It was settled. In a matter of moments he had recovered enough to assure her that her choices for everything—costume, hair, makeup—were all perfect.

  “I trust you completely,” he said as he floated out of the shop. He ran all the way home without noticing the pavement, poured himself a large glass of wine, and then sat very still for a long time.

  And now, as he stood at the bottom of the rise, with Angelica Giancarlo up there in her long creamy nightgown with the tiny sleeves, framed by the trees, Topo thought of her standing in front of that sunlit window. Back lighting was definitely out.

  “Let’s rehearse,” he suggested brightly and bounded back down the rise and began carefully wrapping the projector in the blanket.

  “Leo, you walk up the trail like Father Elio and tell me when you get to the stump.”

  They had decided that a particular broken stump was as close as Father Elio should get. So Leo walked some distance back down the dark trail, but he could still hear Topo’s whispered voice through the trees.

  “Are you ready, Angelica?”

  “Ready.”

  “Okay, Leo. Come on.”

  Leo made his way up the trail, walking slowly, as he imagined Father Elio would, and as he approached the stump he said softly, “Okay, I’m at the stump.”

  At the crest of the rise in front of him, strange lights began to swirl and twist through the mist. The figure of a beautiful woman, with white-blond hair that circled her head like a halo, appeared before him. Her dress glowed and shimmered through the trees. The dim lights played around her, never holding still quite long enough for him to make out any details, but the effect was breathtaking. Her soothing voice came to him like music out of the darkness.

  “Dear Father Elio . . . Do not despair . . . You are not alone . . . All mankind has sinned . . . Think not on the sin, but turn your heart to the mercy of the Father and the sacrifice of your Savior . . . God loves you, as he loves all his children, and no matter your sin, it is already forgiven . . . God forgave your sin ere you had the courage to ask it be forgiven . . . Dear Father Elio . . . Do not despair.”

  Then the silver, shimmering vision reached her hands toward heaven just as the lights faded. And as magically as she had appeared, she was gone and Leo was alone in the forest. He was shaken. He had no idea that it would be this powerful. He had no idea Angelica’s encouraging words would affect him so deeply. A small whisper called to him from the bushes.

  “Well?”

  He had trouble finding his voice. “That was . . . That was . . . wonderful.�
�

  “Could you hear the projector?”

  “Maybe just a little, but . . . No. No, not really. It was . . . great! Can you do it like that again?”

  “No problem. Angelica, that was wonderful. We’re gonna do it just like that for Father Elio. Okay?”

  From the dim shadows of the rise Angelica stepped from behind one of the pines, gave a little wave, and they heard a loud sniff. “Okay. Anybody got a tissue?”

  Marta had arranged things so that Father Elio was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the window; from there he couldn’t look out on the side yard. She’d just made coffee when Nina heard their voices in the kitchen and came downstairs and joined them at the table. She chatted with them for a while, but Nina’s presence made her mother nervous. She had no fears of Nina accidentally seeing Leo through the window, of course, but if the gate squeaked or if Leo stepped on a dried branch, Nina would undoubtedly ask what that noise was and then Uncle Elio might turn to the window. So Marta suggested in an offhand way that Nina looked tired and should consider going to bed. The girl just laughed and said, “If you want me to leave, Mother, just say so,” and she kissed them both good night and went upstairs.

  Marta tried to talk about trivial things, but she was so anxious about Carmen that every sound seized her attention and she strained to hear the obnoxious sputter of a motor scooter. So, by the time Father Elio innocently asked about Carmen, poor Marta’s nerves were as strained as her flood-gates and the tears began to flow before her words did. He was Marta’s uncle, but he was also her priest and it wasn’t difficult for him to get her to talk. It was, however, difficult to tell which torment was filling Marta most—fear or anger. She was angry with Franco for dying so stupidly on that motorcycle with that woman riding with him, her arms locked around his chest. There was no reason to speak of her. She paid. She died too.

  “But that damn Franco should be here now!” she railed. “His daughter needs her father. Carmen won’t listen to another woman, especially her mother. She needs a man to lay down the law. She needs her father! That damn Franco!”