Beneath Ceaseless Skies #167

by Bruce McAllister

  “Yes,” Bonifacio answered for me. “He is.”

  “And you—” the rider said to Bonifacio. “You are—”

  “I am Pope Boniface the Ninth. Il Papino.”

  “Grazia alla Madonna!” the rider exclaimed, removing his cap and pulling even more hair from underneath it, so that it was longer than any boy’s should have been. Still kneeling, the rider—who was not a boy at all, I could see—added in Latin, “In nomine Clementiae mundus salvus semper est....” In the name of La Compassione the world is forever saved....

  At seeing the rider in truth a girl, I felt my knees turn to water, and I collapsed into darkness.

  * * *

  When I woke again, I was looking up into a face which, belonging as it now did to a girl, was much prettier than it had been when it belonged to a boy. It was more than that, however. The face was more willing to smile now, and to be as soft as in truth it was. And when the face spoke, it relinquished all pretense of a voice other than its own—a relief to my ears and certainly to Bonifacio’s as well.

  “Are you all right, Emissary?” the girl asked, concerned but happy. I was embarrassed, of course. This was a girl, after all, and my head was in her lap—but I did not wish to move. I felt like a child, in the caring presence of my mother, whom I did miss, though I had not thought of her in days.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “If he speaks,” Bonifacio said from somewhere, “he must be all right.”

  Bonifacio’s voice carried an odd tone, one I had not heard before. Getting up on one elbow, I looked at my friend. Could it be? Bonifacio was standing by the doorway as if ready to leave, and there appeared to be a pout on his lips.

  “Where are you going, Bonifacio?”

  “I am not needed here. I am going to the kitchen.”

  Did I hear jealousy? A pope jealous of a girl’s attention? As I thought about it, I understood: I had saved the girl’s father; the girl was grateful; she was worried about me, and was attending to me. Bonifacio, though a pope, was suddenly not very important.

  A boy-pope had as much right to be boy as pope, did he not?

  “You are indeed needed here. I can barely get up on one elbow. I may need last rites at any moment.”

  “You tease me.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness. That is what friends are for, is it not?”

  Bonifacio nodded despite himself.

  To the girl I said, “I am fine. Thank you—” I started to address her by her real name, but did not know it.

  “Caterina,” she said. “Caterina Rottini.”

  “That is the name your father called out in his illness,” Bonifacio said gruffly.

  I had stood and was helping the girl up. Her long fingers felt cool in my hand, and I did not want to let them go; but Bonifacio, poor Bonifacio, was watching, and, even if no one were, I would have grown embarrassed holding her hand too long.

  Bonifacio, I saw with relief, had moved from the doorway and was standing beside me now.

  “How is your father?” I asked her.

  “He is sleeping. His lungs sound free of fluid.” She was looking at me, and it seemed that her eyelashes were suddenly longer, which was of course impossible. Her gaze made me uncomfortable, especially in Bonifacio’s presence, but what could I do?

  “Yes,” I said, stepping to the sleeping man. “He looks much better.”

  “Thank you, Emissary.”

  “Please,” I answered. “I am Emilio. And now it is your turn, wouldn’t you say, to tell us who you really are.”

  * * *

  “My twin brother’s name was Giovanni,” she began. We sat at the apartment’s one table eating bread and sausage. “He was the truly blessed rider, and, though a boy, better than most men. Three years ago he was injured in the race—a terrible injury to his head—and we took him home to be attended by the Nicchio’s doctor. Nothing could be done for him; and when he passed from this world, the families of the Nicchio—who knew that I, too, rode well, though never in the Palio, and wished the Madonna’s blessing of our neighborhood and city to continue—swore our doctor to secrecy about my brother’s death, the same secrecy to which they themselves swore.

  I was dressed up to look like my brother, kept my face dirty, put a little scar on it where my brother had had a scar, and wore a cap (so our story went) to cover the much worse scar on my head and the skin there that was so sensitive to sunlight. Who the rider is in the Palio does not matter—it is the horse who wins, not the rider; even a horse who has lost his rider may win—but we knew that the Governors of the Race would not allow a girl to compete. Our priest prayed to the Signora to ensure that our pretense would not be an offense to her, and she appeared to him one night to bless both our plan and our contrada....”

  I looked at Bonifacio again and saw from my friend’s expression that he was thinking the same: All of this might be true—and probably was—but it could not be the entire truth. We could both feel it in her words. For reasons only she knew, Caterina Rottini was choosing not to tell us everything.

  Bonifacio, bold as he often was in such matters (and wishing, as any boy would, to be important), went ahead and asked it: “That is all?”

  “That is enough,” the girl answered just as boldly, but averting her eyes, too. What a strange girl, I thought to myself. So strong, confident and even brash, and yet gentle and humble. How could one be all of these at once?

  I stared at her; and as if sensing my look, she turned to look at me, too. The instant our gazes met, I felt my heart jump once, then again, and did not know why. Why did her look make my body jump? How could eyes do that? And why was it hard for me to look away?

  There was a silence.

  “How will you conceal your father’s recovery from the Nicchio?” I asked.

  “I will not need to.”

  “I do not understand,” Bonifacio said. “The miracle of his healing must point somewhere, and we are the logical direction.”

  “They will know,” she answered, “that he was healed, but not that—not that Emilio healed him.”

  Bonifacio frowned and glanced at me. I shrugged. I did not understand either.

  “We still do not understand,” Bonifacio said.

  The girl had gotten up, was tucking some of her hair under her cap again and heading toward the front door with no intention of explaining. At the doorway she turned.

  “I have preparations to make—one more qualifying race and then the race itself, which I wish you could attend—”

  How strange, I thought. She was certain that she would be in the final race. Everything—even her father’s recovery—she seemed to take for granted.

  “—but I would indeed be grateful if you would instead watch over my father while I am gone. He will be hungry—anyone who has returned from death is—and he may be able to eat bread softened with broth, or broth alone, if he seems weak.” She paused again, and when she spoke, it was with a smile: “And when I return, it will be time for you both to tell me whom a Child Pope and an Emissary of La Compassione would, with their considerable authority, need to flee from?”

  Not knowing what else to do, we nodded; and as I turned to look down at the girl’s father, who was muttering in his sleep, something changed in the room. In the corner of my eye Caterina was not a girl. Though it was impossible, there was a woman in Caterina’s place, one wearing something in her hair, her hair as bright as daylight. When I jerked my gaze back to the doorway, however, it was Caterina again, her back to us as she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  “Did you see a woman?” I asked a moment later.

  “I have seen many women, Emissary,” Bonifacio answered.

  “You are sounding pompous, Bonifacio.”

  “I will try to improve. What woman?”

  “I am tired and imagining things. Forget that I asked....”

  * * *

  When the father woke at last, we had been sitting in his room on stools carried in fr
om the kitchen and were so nearly asleep sitting on those stools that we startled when he said: “Where is Caterina and who are you? And why is there a dog in this room?”

  Bonifacio and I both started at the man, who was up on one arm and looking surprisingly well for one who should be dead.

  Bonifacio could not find the words.

  “We are friends of your daughter, Signore Rottini,” I said. “When you experienced what could only be termed a miraculous recovery, she told us her story and asked us to remain and care for you while she went to the qualifying race. I am Emilio Musetti and that is Bonifacio—Bonifacio....”

  “Bonifacio da Grossacio,” Bonifacio completed for me, and I thought the invention quite sonorous.

  “And you do not need to fear our dog,” I added. “He will protect you as he protects us.”

  The man stared at Stappo for a moment, and then, with a trusting if exhausted sigh, lay back on his pallet of blankets. “I should have known it would happen.”

  Was the man referring to his own miraculous healing or something else?

  “That what would happen, Signore?”

  “That she would be able to do it.”

  “What, Signore?” I asked just as Bonifacio asked, “Who, Signore?” We sounded like a Commedia troupe, trying to get laughs on the street for our daily bread.

  “Heal me,” the man said impatiently. “Caterina, my daughter. That she would heal me.”

  Bonifacio and I looked at each other. We were doing this frequently. The world held too many surprises for us not to.

  “You do not know who she is?” the man asked, puzzled now. “You said she told you.”

  “We met her only yesterday, Signore,” I explained. “We have had only one talk with her, and she told us only a little. We are new to Siena.”

  When suspicion fell over the man’s face, I added quickly, “Your priest felt your daughter’s approval of us, and so he approved of us as well.” I was not sure what it meant exactly—to phrase it this way—but this was how the people of this city, or this neighborhood at least, put things, so why not put it this way for a confused Nicchiaiolo who had just returned from the dead?

  “I see....” the man said.

  “And so,” Bonifacio added, “all we really know about her is that she is a remarkable horse rider—”

  “And,” I continued, “that she took her twin brother’s place—your son’s place, God rest his soul.”

  “My son?”

  “Yes, the one you lost to a terrible injury to his head in the Palio three years ago.”

  The man was speechless. A frown had taken over his face, and all he seemed able to do was stare at us. I added, “At which point your kind and dutiful daughter, with the blessing of your priest and the Madonna of this city, adopted the identity of her twin brother and began to race successfully for your quarter and for the Blessed Madonna, just as your blessed son did....”

  The man’s expression did not change, nor did he speak. Was he having a seizure?

  “At least,” Bonifacio said, “that is what your daughter told us.”

  The frown changed into something else. The man was looking at us now as if we were crazy. When he finally spoke, it was to say: “I do not know why Caterina told you such a story, but it is not true. If you are in our home and have the priest’s blessing, and hers, which I do believe you have, then you are welcome; and I thank you for attending to me in my illness. But Caterina has not told you the truth. Her brother ran away with a girl from Capo Montalbero. The entire Nicchio, at our priest’s suggestion, kept it a secret and advised Caterina to take his place. Her brother did not die of a terrible head wound.”

  It was my turn to be speechless, though Bonifacio was somehow able to say, “Why did your priest advise her thus?”

  “Because....” The man hesitated, but then, as if finding something in our faces that made him trust us, proceeded: “Because we all believe—and have for many years now—that she is the incarnation of the Madonna of Provenzano.

  “Had she not approved of you,” the man went on, “the priest would certainly not have done so, and you would not be sitting with me now.” He had gotten up easily on his own from the pallet, and the three of us were now seated in the kitchen, at the table, where he wolfed down bread and jerky and stew like a starving animal. “Father Salemi,” the man went on, “once told me that he would not be surprised if she showed an ability to heal others, and so it has come to pass.”

  I knew what Bonifacio was thinking. I remembered Caterina’s strange words, too: The Nicchio will know that he was healed, but not how....

  “Even when she was little, she seemed able to foresee the future, even to guide the events of the present to better ends than they should have reached on their own. This gift had also belonged, they say, to the Madonna of Provenzano. Father Salemi saw it when Caterina was very young, and more than one member of our quarter has seen the visage of the Madonna in Caterina’s face, for a passing moment at least, and even the Madonna’s figure walking beside her. This has only become more pronounced as she has grown older. The Madonna herself, people say, has appeared before Father Salemi to confirm this....”

  Having spent himself with words, the little man looked at us silently, spoon in hand, stew dripping from it, and took a deep breath.

  “I do not know why Caterina did not confess this to you when she trusted you enough to let you both minister to me. Why instead she told you a disturbing story about her brother, whose departure from us was foolish but not so tragic, I have no idea. She must have had a reason. Someone who can see the future usually has reason....”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “she is simply humble.”

  The father snorted. “Some would say so, but others would claim she is as obstreperous and rebellious as the boy she pretends to be. I suspect, however, that you are right. She is humble when it comes to matters of the spirit...at least when the Madonna is guiding her.”

  Silence fell again in the kitchen, so that all we could hear was the revelers in the street below, and it lasted until Caterina burst suddenly through the door, dirty and sweaty. She said, “You are looking healthy, Father, and no longer hungry!”

  “Yes, Caterina.”

  “I qualified!”

  “Of course you did,” her father said.

  Of course she would, if she were the incarnation of the Madonna and could foresee the future.

  Turning to me, she said, “I must ask Emilio to be present tomorrow for the race, even if there is risk of discovery for him. Will you do this for me, Emilio?”

  Bonifacio was too stunned to look hurt or jealous. His mouth popped open and remained that way until I said: “Of course.”

  * * *

  Bonifacio and I—and Stappo, too, since the father was unafraid of him—spent the night in the main room, while Caterina slept as always on the floor not far from him.

  Try as I would, I could not sleep. There was a question that kept my eyes open, but what was it?

  I had wanted, out of vanity, to think Caterina had chosen me over Bonifacio to be at the Palio tomorrow because...well, just because. Perhaps she thought me handsome. Perhaps she could barely contain her gratitude for what I had done for her father and so wanted me near her. Perhaps it was vanity on her part, too, and she wanted me to be impressed with her prowess in the race. Perhaps....

  But this was not how a Madonna thought, I knew. Even a mortal girl who could, at times at least, see the future might have another reason.

  * * *

  When I woke on my own pallet, it was to a voice; and I was certain an angel or something worse was standing over me. From the look on Bonifacio’s face, he feared the same. But it was only Caterina silhouetted by bright morning light through the room’s window. She had woken before us and dressed for the race, and was again the boy she needed to be.

  “You should rise now, too,” she said to us both. “I will return in a few minutes.” Then she was gone, the door closing quietly behind her.r />
  What she meant by this, I had no idea, and neither did Bonifacio.

  As the father stumbled into the kitchen—no less steady than anyone his age would be upon waking—he grumbled “Buona mattina, ragazzi!” and began to prepare bread and butter for himself.

  “You have awakened a monster with your healing,” Bonifacio whispered, short-changed on his holy rest and irritable as a consequence.

  “No wonder the son ran away—” I joked back, stopping when the father glanced at us from the kitchen table.

  Bonifacio stifled a laugh. The father was looking at us.

  Just as we sat down with him in the kitchen, buttering our own bread, the front door opened again and instead of one figure—Caterina’s—two entered.

  The Nicchio priest was with her. Why? Were our secrets not to be kept?

  “Do not be angry with me,” she began. “I have brought Father Salemi, and for good reason. He is the one person I have told about the miracle of my father’s healing and your identities, and I have done so because there is a need. He has asked to meet you. I have agreed, but in return have asked a favor of him.”

  “Your Holiness,” the priest said, and he was so agitated, his face so red, that I feared for a moment his heart might explode. He knelt before the chubby Bonifacio, who looked about as holy as a piglet, but who, of the two boys standing before the priest, was obviously il Papino. Had the Child Pope possessed orange hair, as I did, Rome would certainly have spoken both tirelessly and tiresomely of it.

  Bonifacio straightened, took on the bearing he had grown up with—the boy-man who had given last rights to cardinals, archbishops and bishops—and with sincerity and compassion said: “Grazia a Lei, Father Salemi. May the blessings of the Lord be upon you.”

  The girl’s father, poor man, was struck dumb, the last piece of bread he had put in his mouth still there, the chewing of it ceased, the mouth open, the eyes darting from Bonifacio to the priest to Caterina to me and back to Bonifacio again.

  “Benedicat tibi Dominus et custodiat te,” the priest and Bonifacio said together.

  Caterina, solemn now, continued: “And this is Emilio Musetti, the one by whose light my father was healed.”