by D. L. Smith
“I remember.”
“Everything was different after that day.”
“I know.”
“I wish we had gone swimming.”
“You were with Franco.”
“You were an idiot.”
Marta could feel Leo’s breathing suddenly stop. His body tensed and he pressed back against the wall. She looked out into the darkness to where Leo was watching and saw a figure hurrying across the dunes toward the beach. It had to be Carmen. Leo whispered, “It must be ten o’clock.”
After having waited in the thicket for so long, Marta was startled at how quickly the scene unfolded. As Carmen ran down the trail across the dunes, Marta became aware of the familiar and unpleasant putt-putt of a motor scooter out on the road. She could see the dim light of Solly Puce’s Vespa stop and blink out as he parked at the top of the trail. Marta gave Leo’s back a serious punch.
“Solly Puce? What’s Solly Puce doing here!”
Leo gripped her shoulders tightly. “The only reason you’re here is because you promised to be quiet. Now shut up!”
Carmen ran down the trail and looked out toward the beach as the wind blew a light rain around her. Black clouds were now rolling in so quickly that the moonlight was having difficulty dodging them. It was as if this storm, which had been so patient and concealed beyond the horizon, was suddenly eager to crash upon the shore.
Carmen moved back from the beach to find shelter in the grove of cedars just as Solly Puce came bounding down the trail from the dunes. Carmen saw him at once, and although from where they were hiding Leo and Marta couldn’t hear what was being said, it was clear that Carmen wasn’t pleased to see Solly. It was also evident that Solly had taken Topo’s advice to heart and he was there to prove to Carmen that he was a man to be reckoned with. The conversation didn’t last long. Carmen ordered Solly away and Solly said something to Carmen that got his face slapped. The rain began to fall in earnest and the wind howled through the trees and their voices were only faint shouts as the words all blew away. Solly grabbed at Carmen. From the bushes it appeared to Marta that he tore her blouse. Carmen struck at him again, but he blocked her blow this time and they heard her cry out as he slapped her.
Marta wanted to run across the grove and join the fray— she and Carmen would show Solly Puce how it was done— but when she pushed forward Leo’s arm shot across her body as a barricade. She wanted to shout at Leo to do something, to stop this, but he wasn’t even watching. His eyes were focused up the beach to the north.
“Give me the pistol,” was all he said.
Her hands were trembling terribly as she unwrapped the shawl and placed the old revolver in Leo’s hand. She was terrified that he was going to shoot Solly Puce, and she was terrified he wasn’t. She prayed the old bullets would fire. At that moment, Carmen tried to run back toward the beach, but Solly caught her from behind. She kicked at him and they both fell to the sand.
Marta could hear Leo whispering something urgently to himself, but his eyes were still focused on the northern beach. Marta had had enough. She pushed Leo out of the way and started down toward the beach; this time he grabbed her, pulled her back, and clamped his hand over her mouth. Leo was prepared for whatever might happen. If Paolo Lombolo failed to appear Leo would have to either beat Solly Puce senseless or shoot the little bastard and bury his body in the dunes. At this point, he didn’t care which. But Marta was right, the assault couldn’t continue.
On the beach, Carmen’s shouts were swallowed by the wind and the roar of the waves as Solly pushed her back on the sand. Leo had just decided he had waited as long as possible, when suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Solly stopped his attack. Then he stood up. Then he began backing away. From where she lay in the sand Carmen shouted something.
Marta’s eyes grew wide as a great pale horse stormed over the edge of the beach and reared up. Leo thought it was wonderful that the lightning chose that moment to streak across the sky over their heads. Its thunder cracked the sky open and rain fell in torrents as the horseman moved steadily in on the retreating Solly until they reached the grove of cedars. Then the dark rider slipped his leg over the horse’s neck, and without taking his eyes off the frightened postman, he slid from the mare’s bare back to the ground. Leo was impressed with Paolo’s coolness as he calmly took the time to tie the reins to a branch.
To his credit, Solly Puce stood his ground and even shouted a number of indistinguishable curses at the intruder. He was in the middle of performing one of his intimidating gyrations, when a fist shot out of the darkness and rechoreographed the routine. Instead of rolling his shoulder, Solly’s head snapped back. Before he had a chance to recover or respond the fist was in his face again and bouncing painfully off his newly crushed nose. No one ever said Solly Puce was totally stupid and before the fist could flash out of the darkness a third time, Solly was on the trail across the dunes and headed at top speed for his trusty Vespa.
Leo finally relaxed his grip on Marta’s mouth and she was able to whisper, “Who is that?”
“Paolo Lombolo.”
“Ohh . . . My goodness, he’s all grown up.”
Paolo went back to where Carmen lay sobbing in the wet sand. He picked her up and carried her back to the cedar grove.
It was hard to see them through the black rain, but Leo was sure they were near. Marta heard the pistol cock. My God, she thought, he’s going to shoot them! Leo pulled Marta away from the wall, aimed the gun at the ground and fired twice.
Solly was halfway across the dunes when he heard the two gunshots. Positive that they came from the unknown horseman and were meant for the back of his head, he ran in a blind panic back to his Vespa and tore off down the road.
Back at the beach, when Carmen heard the gunshots she gripped Paolo by the shirt and shouted, “My God, he’s got a gun!” She pulled Paolo across the grove and together they dove into the bushes at the base of the stone wall.
Leo and Marta barely saw them coming. They squeezed together against the wall as Carmen and Paolo took shelter in their bushes, less than a meter away.
Then the heart of the summer storm broke over their heads and Paolo put his arms around Carmen to shield her from the wind and rain and to comfort her fear. But in truth, the storm didn’t frighten either of them—they had both been struck by lightning the day before. And fortunately, they never turned their faces away from each other, so they didn’t see the two stonelike figures pressed against the wall behind them, their bodies squashed together, facing each other, afraid to move or even breathe. Leo looked over Marta’s head or at the sky—anywhere but into her face. He had complete confidence that when they could move again, she was going to slap him hard or maybe punch him again. But when lightning flashed a brief white flare, he saw her dark eyes quietly watching him. When it was gone and they were surrounded by darkness again, he felt the side of her head touch his chest. He could smell her hair and he could feel her breathing.
The summer storm passed swifter than it arrived. The moon returned as the black clouds raced on toward the mountains in the southeast.
Paolo helped Carmen up, untied the mare, and swung easily up onto her back. Then in one smooth motion he lifted Carmen up in front of him. They rode up the trail across the dunes and at the road they turned south. From there they would let the horse slowly walk all the way to the front door of the hotel.
Leo and Marta decided it would be best if they took the route along the beach rather than risk being seen by Paolo and Carmen. So they followed the glistening sand and white surf until they reached the cliffs. There they took a familiar trail that led up through the boulders to the plateau that was the beginning of the Pizzola farm.
The moon was still bright as they crossed the fields and the roar of the breakers faded to a murmur behind them and Marta saw something at the top of the meadow that she hadn’t seen in many years. A light was shining in a window of the Pizzola house. Leo was staying in the house. That was good. He should.
> When they reached the dirt road that went up to the opening in the stone fence, Leo asked Marta if he should walk with her back to the hotel, but she told him that it wasn’t necessary and they said good night. Before she left, Marta turned to him and said, “Thank you for what you did for Carmen.” And then she took his face in her hands and she kissed him and it was more than a simple thank-you.
As he stood in the road watching Marta’s form growing fainter in the moonlight, her voice called to him from the distance.
“It was never Franco.” Then she was gone.
That night Leo sat on the porch of his father’s house for a long time before going inside. She had said, “It was never Franco”—and he thought of those words, and about their years of growing up together. It was as if hundreds of tiny fragments of his life that had always been floating just in front of his eyes finally all converged and came together. He remembered all the mysterious looks that she had offered, but he thought he’d imagined . . . He remembered years of smiles that were meant for him, but he hadn’t understood . . . He remembered how she touched his hand or called his name or watched him play when she thought he didn’t know . . . And he remembered his jealousy when she returned from Milano because of the boy that she didn’t want to lose. It had been him. He was the boy. She had said he was an idiot.
At last he went upstairs and for the first time in many years he slept in his own bed in his own room. But that night Leo didn’t dream about frescoes or Chicago or baseball or nameless women. That night he dreamt of when he was a boy, and he helped his father harvest the grapes.
TWENTY-TWO
The next morning Father Elio awoke much later than usual and he discovered that he couldn’t get out of bed. His legs didn’t seem to want to work. During the night, a loud summer squall had wakened him and the flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder had left him unable to go back to sleep. He got up to see what damage the storm might have done to the church, what with that gaping hole in the roof.
What he found, to his delight, was that the storm had washed away much of the dust and dirt that his broom had been unable to capture. He wasn’t sure what it would look like in the morning sunlight, but at that moment it was so clean it almost sparkled.
Then, since he was already awake, he turned out the lights in the church and went out to the garden. He sat on the stone ledge that surrounded the Miracle and leaned his back against the thin trunk of the old fig tree. This was his favorite place to pray, but he had become a bit nervous about sitting there ever since the earthquake collapsed part of the stone wall. It would be awful if someone happened by, saw him leaning against the fig tree, and thought he was pretending to be Saint Francis. Of course, he wasn’t. He just loved leaning against the old tree, knowing that the blessed saint had done the same thing. That night after the storm he lost track of how long he sat and prayed. When he finally rose to return to bed, the joints in his legs were painful and his whole body felt chilled from the dampness.
It was only the most dedicated few who came to early mass, even on Sunday, and it was they who first began to worry about Father Elio. He was never late for mass and for him to miss a mass was unthinkable—especially a Sunday mass. But no one, not even Maria Gamboni, had the courage to go back to Father Elio’s quarters to check on him. They were much less concerned for his privacy than they were fearful of what they might find. Angelica Giancarlo was the most disappointed of all. Not only was it a brand-new Sunday morning for her, but this was to be her first mass in many years. She was the one that finally made the trek across the piazza to the hotel and politely, almost shyly, told Marta her concerns.
Nina was the first to arrive. When she heard Angelica telling her mother that Father Elio wasn’t at mass, Nina bolted from the kitchen and Marta had trouble catching her. Father Elio tried to pass the whole thing off as a slight chill, but his sallow color and sunken eyes frightened Marta. She left Nina sitting at his bedside holding his hand while she went to his kitchen and prepared a bowl of boiled oatmeal with a bit of milk and honey. When she brought it to him he tried to remind her of his fast, but Marta scolded him so harshly that she shocked both Elio and Nina. The old man finally allowed her to feed him a bit of the boiled oatmeal and almost at once he began commenting on how good it tasted. Marta made sure he ate the whole thing and when he was done Uncle Elio announced that he would like to take a nap—but for her to be sure to tell those he had disappointed that morning that he would be there for the evening mass. Then he closed his eyes. Nina held his hand until she was sure he was asleep.
How people might know these things is a mystery, but there is always a difference between a rumor and a surety. That Father Elio was ill was a surety. Who started spreading the word of his condition and his promise for an evening mass was unknown. It was probably either Maria Gamboni or the Saraceno sisters—it may have been both. Who it was didn’t matter. The important thing was that by mid-morning word of Father Elio’s condition had spread from door to door, leapt across streets from window to window, and scampered around corners until, at last, all of Santo Fico was buzzing. By midday it was almost impossible to make a phone call into Santo Fico. The lines were all busy. As all this was going on, Father Elio slept for the rest of the day, the thick stone walls protecting him from the commotion going on outside.
By the afternoon, what began as a trickle had become a steady stream of cars and trucks bumping across the dry plains in the south and up the tortuous little road toward Santo Fico’s piazza. Leo was on his way to the olive grove when he noticed the unusual cloud of dust hovering over the north coast road. It was only when he walked up to the opening in the stone fence that he discovered the line of slow-moving traffic working its way past his gate and up the hill. So he followed the parade into town.
It was at about this time that the first fishing trawlers started appearing on the northern and southern horizons. They all patiently and courteously waited their turn to enter the narrow jetty, but soon all the berths at the pier were filled. As more boats arrived, they dropped anchor in the little harbor and the occupants caught skiffs to the shore. By evening there was barely room to sit down in Santo Fico.
Father Elio was weak, but as the hour for evening mass approached he insisted that Nina help him from his bed. He’d promised an evening mass and he wouldn’t disappoint them again. When he’d heard that Angelica Giancarlo was among those who had attended in the morning, his heart leapt for her. He would not fail her again.
For some odd reason, his kitchen seemed to be a hotbed of activity. Marta, Carmen, and Nina were there and although he was used to them being in his kitchen, it was rare to have them all there at the same time. On his pine table was a familiar tray with a large bowl of thick vegetable soup, fresh bread, and a glass of red wine. The smell of the broth was marvelous and he allowed himself to be bullied into eating again. And Leo kept turning up for some strange reason. Elio noticed that Marta’s anger toward Leo seemed to have evaporated and was now being replaced by something else—but he tried not to show that he noticed. Then there was Carmen, whose attitude toward her mother also seemed to have experienced a drastic change. Carmen hung on her mother’s every word and couldn’t stop touching her. Then there was Topo, who never came near the church unless he wanted to borrow some electricity for his moving pictures. But today he apparently had a number of questions for Leo, so both men were popping in and out unexpectedly all afternoon.
Father Elio found the activity of his suddenly bustling little kitchen exciting, but confusing. He sat at the table nibbling the bread and picking at the soup, most of the time handicapped by the use of only one hand because Nina seemed unwilling to release the other one. So the two of them sat together like the calm eye of a quiet hurricane that swirled around them. Finally, he told them they had to leave. He’d eaten enough and he had to prepare for mass.
It was then that Father Elio made an odd request. He asked Leo to stay. He explained to Leo that he was still feeling a bit shaky and chil
led. “Besides,” he said, “you were the best altar boy I ever had.”
Nina asked if she could stay also and he agreed, so the three of them went to the vestry where Elio discovered his vestments had already been laid out. Someone had cleaned and pressed them and Leo held the garments for the old priest as he had done when he was a boy. Neither of them spoke and both were pleased with how smoothly the ritual was performed. Then Nina helped her uncle down the few meters of stone corridor and a curious glow from within the church pulled the old priest forward.
When Father Elio stepped out of the corridor and stood in the doorway of the church his knees almost buckled beneath him. The odd glow he had seen came from hundreds of candles that filled the great room. There were candles in the candle stands that hung from the walls and piers. They gleamed from the great chandelier above the altar that had not been lit in decades. The candles in the great brass candelabrum that surrounded the altar glowed so brightly they almost hurt his eyes.
And everywhere were faces—hundreds and hundreds of faces. There were people everywhere—more people than lived in Santo Fico. People took up all the room on all the benches. People stood in the side aisles. People stood at the back. People stood in the choir. Everywhere he looked, there were silent smiling faces. And Father Elio knew all those smiling faces too, though most he had not seen for many years. Hundreds of faces that once lived in Santo Fico and then spread throughout the whole region. There were old and wrinkled faces that he recognized as companions of his youth. There were the middle-aged faces of those that he had married. There were the younger faces of those that he had christened. Everywhere were the faces of his family and neighbors—the faces of his life. There was Maria Gamboni sitting beside her retrieved love Enrico, the jolly plumber. There was Topo sitting beside Angelica Giancarlo, although her hair looked different. It was soft now, and sitting beside her was her mother. Father Elio hadn’t seen Signora Gian-carlo in church for many years. In a back corner was Nonno and beside him was the gray dog. Saint Francis would have liked having the dog in his church, thought Elio. And there was Angelo de Parma and his wife and his grandchildren. Smiling in the front row was Carmen and there was a handsome young man beside her, holding her hand. And then there was Marta sitting in the front row and she was smiling too. Tears came to his eyes when he saw Marta’s smile. Everyone was beaming and the room was so silent you could hear the candles burn.
