The Miracles of Santo Fico

by D. L. Smith

  But he wasn’t worried. Father Elio loved his great-niece. She reminded him so much of Marta in her younger days, when she was the one catching the attention of every man on the coast and, as he recalled, even those strangers from Milano who were considered authorities on beauty. Although unlike Carmen, Marta had never seemed aware of her charms. But he wasn’t worried. What Elio saw as Carmen’s playful wickedness he never associated with evil; rather he attributed it to youthful exuberance. It was something he had witnessed many times before and was fully confident she would outgrow. He wasn’t worried. Besides, he prayed for her continually.

  Father Elio liked it best when Nina brought the lunch because Nina was the quietest and the deepest. She seemed to have a special sensitivity toward whatever he was thinking and feeling and although this sometimes frightened him, it was never in a bad way. It wasn’t just that her hearing was more attuned, although it was, or her touch more sensitive, although it was—it was more than that. Nina felt more deeply. Everyone recognized her as a remarkably sweet-natured girl, but Elio recognized in her the hand of God.

  She was also filled with questions and starved for answers, and he liked that. And so often her questions challenged him on so many subjects: the meaning of life, the form of the universe, the duality of nature, varying perceptions of God. Father Elio often felt like he was back in a classroom at the university in Bologna with a shrewd professor who hid behind a cloak of innocent curiosity. He knew the strategy of Socrates; how the old philosopher would befuddle his students by his continual amazement at their astute perceptions, asking them more and more questions, begging them to teach him their wisdom, until at last they crumbled under the weight of their own ignorance. When Nina questioned, Elio considered his answers carefully.

  Although he enjoyed those times of discussion that often turned into philosophical debates, those were still not his favorite times to be with Nina. His favorite times were when they didn’t speak at all—when she was doing some simple task like picking up the dishes or darning his clothes or petting the cat. She tried to be quiet, certain that Father Elio was either reading his Bible or some other great spiritual work or he was meditating or he was deep in a profound prayer. But he wasn’t. Most often he was watching her. When he watched her, when he listened to her soft, unconscious humming, when he observed the grace of her soul surround even the simplest, meanest task, it brought serenity to his heart.

  Everyone knew that Nina was different. Most people in the village felt she was limited because of her blindness. Some silently thought she was slightly simple. Others thought she was so childlike and innocent because Marta and Carmen were so zealous in their protection of her. But even Marta and Carmen didn’t truly understand Nina and what it was that made her special. Elio knew. He alone recognized the truth. Nina lived a life of grace; a grace he did not possess. And lately, more and more often, it frightened him and made him angry. Not angry with Nina—never with Nina. Nor did it make him angry with God. It wasn’t God’s fault. He was angry with himself. After all these years of struggling to atone for his sin, he only had to see the grace of God’s hand on Nina to recognize his own failure. And recently, something new had begun to gnaw at his heart.

  He’d begun to feel mortality. He knew instinctively that time was shortening, and the day was approaching when he was going to have to pay for his arrogance and deceit—and he was afraid. He’d known for years that this time would eventually arrive and he was willing, almost anxious, to have it over and done with, but he was afraid his retribution was spilling beyond himself. He didn’t want the price of his sin to touch those he loved, those he wanted most to protect and serve, but he couldn’t shake the premonition that the village of Santo Fico was going to pay.

  It was Nina who first heard Leo’s footsteps. Father Elio was far too interested in his remarkable plate of pasta drowning in a sea of creamy white sauce and swimming with shrimp; and he was still chuckling at Nina’s account of the morning’s excitement with the tour bus. It was because of the tour bus that he was feasting on white sauce and shrimp. Monday was usually pasta with pomodoro and salsiccia. When Nina raised her hand to indicate the steps in the distance, Elio knew who was walking down the stone corridor toward his rooms. Earlier, watching the tour bus, he’d thought of Leo Pizzola.

  Last month, less than an hour after Leo trudged up the north coast, no fewer than eleven concerned neighbors ran to the church with the news that “Tony Pizzola’s troublemaker son” had returned from America—probably “looking to make more trouble.” But Father Elio knew what this pilgrim was looking for, even if he didn’t. It wasn’t trouble. But Leo would have to figure it out for himself.

  Father Elio even went out to the Pizzola farm and discovered that Leo wasn’t living in the house. He’d taken up residence in an old shepherd’s hut down by the cliffs. The priest had hoped that he’d returned to put the farm in order, but Leo only wanted to sell it all and go back to America. Their conversation was polite, but not friendly. Elio wished it had been friendly, but he made Leo uncomfortable—probably because Tony Pizzola had been one of Father Elio’s best friends from childhood. But Leo was a good boy . . . an idiot, but a good boy. He was the best altar boy Father Elio’d ever had . . . and the magical way he told those stories . . .

  “Hello.”

  Leo stood framed in the low door of the kitchen wearing a wonderful facsimile of a smile he’d created as he walked down the passageway. He was even prepared with a couple of spontaneous quips, but even as he was still offering his hesitant greeting, the old priest was already shuffling across the kitchen. Father Elio wrapped him in an enthusiastic embrace and pulled his head down to kiss both his cheeks—it was the same return of the prodigal greeting he’d given Leo the first time he saw him at the shepherd’s hut.

  Leo had always considered Father Elio to be God’s hand on earth; he’d certainly felt that hand across the back of his head and regions farther south enough times. In his mind’s eye, the face of Father Elio belonged somewhere on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—perhaps imperiously reaching his finger out toward a drowsy Adam’s languidly outstretched hand. Father Elio’s hair turning white by his forties reinforced this image, and so Leo had always considered Father Elio old. But now when he embraced him and felt his small, frail body beneath his baggy black jacket Leo realized he hadn’t correctly perceived the old man. Why had he remembered this priest as being large? He was a small man, a full head shorter than he was. And his frame was skin and bones. Father Elio was just a man, unexpectedly aged and surprisingly fragile.

  Father Elio performed a short introduction of Nina to Leo, and then Leo hemmed and hawed impatiently as she gathered up the lunch dishes. He understood that she was blind, of course, but he did wish that she would hurry up because there was something about the girl that disturbed him. On the surface she appeared to take no notice of him and simply went about her business, but Leo couldn’t shake the feeling that she heard him—not what he spoke, she heard his thoughts, she heard his heart. That was unnerving enough, but now, seeing Nina beside Father Elio as she cleared the table, Leo felt a chill run down his back—it was their eyes. They had the same startling pale blue eyes. To be confronted with one set was unsettling— but two sets of those haunting eyes, side by side, was downright spooky.

  Father Elio could sometimes be surprisingly astute. He knew Leo had come for a reason and he had a pretty good idea what that reason was. Leo wasn’t going to be able to get down to business until they were alone and even he finally recognized that Nina was obviously stalling. So, as they chatted, he began casually pushing plates and bowls in front of her groping fingers.

  When Nina understood what her great-uncle was doing she picked up her pace, but she also showed her displeasure by loudly dropping things into the basket with a pointed indifference that made the old man fear for the crockery. She wanted to stay and listen—not because she was interested in anything Leo had to say, but because of his voice. It was musical and fill
ed with secrets and such an unusual accent after his years in America. But mostly she wanted to listen because his voice was like diving into a deep pool of mysterious water. She sensed that no matter what Leo actually said, it was rarely connected to what he was really thinking. If she could listen to him long enough, if she could swim down into that dark water, she could perhaps glimpse his secret. She had no way of knowing that this was precisely what made Leo uneasy about being around her.

  Once Nina was packed and out the door it took Leo little time to get down to business. Father Elio listened patiently. When he was done, Leo waited silently while the priest carefully brushed breadcrumbs across the wooden table and into a tiny pile. Finally after some deep contemplation, Father Elio spoke.

  “So, they’re English.”

  Leo nodded and waited some more. Some things never change. Even as a child Leo was aware of Father Elio’s legendary pauses. The old priest didn’t rush into anything, and the length of his contemplation was entirely dependent on how weighty he considered the situation at hand. Those who wanted Father Elio’s blessing or opinion had best come armed with a full complement of patience. Leo concluded that either his current proposal was especially weighty or, because of his extended absence from Santo Fico, he owed a big backlog of missed pauses. After a bit it became hard to tell if Father Elio was still awake—or breathing.

  At last, “Are they Catholic?”

  Leo was delighted that he could answer in all honesty that he did not know, but he silently doubted it. He knew now that it wouldn’t have made any difference. Father Elio was going to acquiesce and the English tourists being Catholic would have just been frosting on the cake—kind of like Chicago or baseball. Then, out of the blue, Father Elio shocked him with a remarkably straightforward and mercenary question.

  “How much are they going to pay?”

  Apparently some things do change. The old priest shot that one in so quickly that Leo was caught completely off guard. He didn’t have time to think.

  “Four hundred thousand lire,” he lied.

  Why did he lie? He hadn’t planned on lying. Why did that figure pop out of his mouth? Where did it come from? Unfortunately, there’d been that split second of indecision. Had it given him away? But he couldn’t take it back now and say he was mistaken, so he smiled.

  Father Elio looked back down at his small pile of bread-crumbs. He didn’t care about the price. He wasn’t thinking about money or even the English tourists. His mind had again drifted to that first miraculous summer and the two twelve-year-old boys sitting with him at this wooden table. Father Elio brushed the breadcrumbs across the table and sighed, “Four hundred thousand lire. That’s a pretty good price.”

  Leo smiled, nodded. “Yeah, it’s . . . pretty good.”

  He heard his own voice affirming their good fortune, but Leo imagined he saw judgment staring at him from the old man’s twinkling blue eyes and he was once again a little boy caught in a fib. His stomach turned sour with guilt and the muscles in his face ached from the pressure of his forced smile—he hated himself for ever thinking this would be a good idea.

  SEVEN

  The English tourists had already visited the great cathedrals of Milano, Firenze, and Siena and were scheduled to be in Roma in three days, where they would tour Saint Peter’s Cathedral. So, although no one was openly rude to their horsy companion who had negotiated this deal, upon entering the remarkably unimpressive church of Santo Fico they all certainly gave him looks that seemed to say, “Five hundred thousand lire, indeed!”

  As Leo observed them from the shadows of the narrow passageway it was obvious, even from that distance and in bad light, that they were feeling distinctly disgruntled and he wished the church weren’t so damn dingy. He didn’t remember the windows being so dirty, or all the dust and cobwebs on the candleholders, or the altar looking so shabby, or the transept being so dark. He was suddenly reminded of Father Elio’s frugality and he turned to the old priest, who was at his shoulder straining to see how many visitors had made the pilgrimage.

  “Are there light bulbs in the lamps for the Mystery?” Father Elio chuckled, “Light bulbs? In the lamps? Of course.” He chuckled again and patted Leo on the back, but even in the shadows Leo could see the old man’s mind racing. Finally, “I don’t know . . . Maybe not . . . I don’t think so. . . No.”

  “We’ll go out to the garden first, to the Miracle. See if you can find some light bulbs.”

  Father Elio nodded. “It’s better when you go to the garden first, isn’t it?”

  Leo shrugged in a way that seemed to say, maybe, but what’s to be done. Father Elio nodded his agreement and returned his shrug. Leo stepped out of the hallway and Father Elio followed him into the nave. For the first time the priest saw the size of the group waiting—there were about a dozen strangers and at least twice that many villagers. Apparently when the tourists departed the restaurant, the curious villagers followed them and those who were mid-meal just brought their plates of food and glasses of wine with them. So even though the natives were becoming friendlier toward the foreigners, smiling and nodding at every opportunity, the strangers still wore the frozen gaze of those who wished some giant elevator doors would open and they could gratefully step off onto their floor.

  As Leo moved up the center aisle he smiled broadly and with a generous wave of his arm he called, “Welcome to the Cattedrale di Santo Fico!” It was pushing it a bit to call this mishmash of incomplete architecture a cathedral, but he was counting on poetic license. With another sweep of his arm he directed their attention toward the timid little shadow standing behind him, grinning self-consciously and fidgeting like a schoolboy.

  “And’a this is Father Elio, who has been the priest of Santo Fico for . . . oh, at least two . . . three hundred’a years now.” For their part, the tourists were Christian and the old man was, after all, a priest, so Leo’s little joke received polite nods and chuckles. Their predicament wasn’t his fault and he looked like a nice enough chap—besides, he seemed so anxious to please.

  “Benvenuto!” Father Elio wanted to kick himself. He knew the English word once, what was it?

  Leo called to them, “He says welcome.”

  Father Elio clapped his hands and pointed at Leo. That was the word! And he called again with almost frightening enthusiasm, “Si! Si! Wel’a-come! Wel’a-come!” He took a deep breath and tried to settle down. He knew he was too nervous. It had been so many years since he’d seen this many strangers in his church. In fact, he rarely had this many villagers in his church, apart from certain high holy days, or weddings, or christenings, or funerals.

  Leo spoke to the group again in English and Father Elio had no idea what was being said, but he could occasionally pick out certain words. He clearly understood references to Cosimo de Medici and so he knew that Leo was telling them something about the history of the little church and the foreigners actually seemed to understand him! Like the rest of the village, Father Elio was proud of Leo’s mastery of this strange language.

  Leo chattered away as he conducted the group down the center aisle, turning them toward the door by the northern transept—and as they disappeared out into the courtyard, he quickly hissed a harsh whisper at Father Elio.

  “Light bulbs . . . !”

  Light bulbs? Ah! Light bulbs . . . Yes! Father Elio knew for sure that there was at least one by his bedroom and another in the bathroom.

  The sunlit courtyard was a small rectangular affair, probably fifteen meters in width and not much more than that in length. Two of its walls were the exterior side of the northern transept and apse, while the other two borders were exterior courtyard walls obviously built after the original church, but still hundreds of years old. There wasn’t much in the small enclosure to distinguish it as even a garden, much less a shrine to some miraculous event.

  The visitors shuffled along a stone path that trailed through clumps of herbs, always pressing forward—trying to make room enough for everyone to fit into
the modest space. Fortunately, for some lucky ones there were a few stone benches placed rather haphazardly. In the center of the courtyard was an olive tree that bestowed a surprising amount of shade. The combination of the tree and the fact that they were on the north side of the building made the rustic courtyard a shady and not wholly unpleasant place. It was a simple arrangement: paths, benches, random clumps of rosemary, basil, sage, lavender, lemon balm, thyme, the olive tree—and in the farthest corner of the exterior walls, surrounded by a low border of obviously ancient stone, was a withered and blackened tree stump. The dead stump was no more than two meters at its highest point and from all appearances it should have been pulled up years ago. A little more than halfway up two split and warped branches reached painfully upward and had the surprising effect of making the entire area seem more untidy than it actually was. That awkward twist of dead wood, like some mummified, agonized letter Y, gave the space a disheveled appearance and all of the fastidious English gardeners in the tour secretly longed for their trusty garden shears and pruning saws. It was obvious even to the most horticulturally obtuse that the trunk was dead, but few would have guessed its demise was counted in centuries. Leo sat on the low wall that surrounded the dead tree and absently pulled at a brittle weed as his odd mixture of soft, pink English tourists and sturdy, tanned villagers worked their way in. When finally he cleared his throat the courtyard became silent. His calm voice drew the listeners in as he outlined the history of this promontory, before there was a Santo Fico, before a small band of Franciscans built a monastery sometime in the thirteenth century. It wasn’t difficult to imagine this craggy point overlooking the sea prior to that time—with pastures and shepherds, and fruit trees growing everywhere.