by D. L. Smith
They stared down in the hole.
“We’re going to need a plumber for this, you know.” The edge in Topo’s voice left no doubt that he blamed Leo for Nonno’s having smashed the pipe.
“Ohhh, you’re going to need a hell of a plumber. We smashed that son of a bitch.” Nonno laughed loudly.
Leo’s mind raced—they could make this work. This afternoon Topo would drive into town and get a plumber to come back tomorrow. Get a plumber from Follonica . . . No! Follonica’s too close. Topo should go all the way to Piombino and find a plumber who’s never been to Santo Fico, a plumber nobody knows. Leo will dig out more of the pipe, then camouflage the hole. Tomorrow the plumber fixes the pipe, with a valve this time. Then with a bit of setup and good timing and luck, they turn the valve and—a miracle.
Nonno didn’t understand any of what Leo and Topo were planning—he had his own plans.
“Wait until we go back and tell them. Wait till they hear we’re going to turn the water back on!”
This could have been a disaster, but it was quickly explained to Nonno that the pipe, the water, and the fountain all had to stay a secret. It was going to be a surprise for everyone, especially Father Elio. In fact, he must never say anything to anyone, ever. Nonno understood. He liked secrets and he liked surprises and he especially liked Father Elio. They could count on him.
From her bedroom window, Marta watched the familiar little red truck move out onto the road in a cloud of dust and disappear into the trees. Topo was headed for the highway. She had watched them from her window, off and on, for most of the morning, and although Marta had no idea what Leo was up to, she didn’t have good feelings about it.
FIFTEEN
The next morning, bright and early, Leo, Topo, Nonno, and the gray dog sat in the shade of an oak tree and listened for the sound of a truck coming through the trees. The plumber that Topo found in Piombino promised he would drive down this road “first thing” in the morning, but apparently pinning the plumber down to a more exact time was a losing battle. At least Topo had found a fellow who swore he didn’t know anyone in Santo Fico, had never been to Santo Fico, and hoped never to go to Santo Fico. That was good, anyway.
The dog was the first to hear something. He lifted his head off the ground and looked into the trees. By the time the other three could hear the faint growl of a truck coming down the road, the dog was already bored with it and had gone back to sleep.
The plumber’s little truck sputtered to a halt in a haze of blue smoke and all three spectators stood in silent awe that the truck had actually made it all the way from Piombino. They also wondered if this plumber actually had a shop or just this beleaguered little truck. The back was filled with racks and shelves and bins, and they in turn were filled with every conceivable fashion of tool, pipe, clamp, bolt, and exotic plumbing implement imaginable. With all that equipment it was understandable why the axles and frame almost dragged on the ground. Or so they thought, until the door opened and the small truck groaned with painful relief as the short driver climbed out of the cab. The three observers all had concerns about the width of the door and the girth of their plumber. Leo couldn’t recall ever having seen anyone who was actually as wide as they were tall, although admittedly, this cannonball with legs wasn’t particularly tall. In fact, he was particularly short—he and Topo probably spoke eye-to-eye. And as they watched him pull a sack of tools from the back of his truck, it became apparent that there was not an ounce of what could be considered flab on this fellow. He was solid. And he was dark. His arms and face were close to the color of worn brown shoes. From where Leo stood, he couldn’t tell if the man was weathered from the sun or just incredibly grimy.
He approached his three anxious helpers with a solid rolling gait and a smile that lit up his face all the way to the top of his bald, brown head and asked simply, “So where’s this smashed pipe?”
Leo and Topo spun away from the approaching plumber almost simultaneously, as if they had been struck by a big stick. “Over here . . . This way . . .” They quickly moved ahead and upwind of their plumber as they led him across the hot field toward the hole.
It’s the nature of the world and the business of a plumber that occasionally he’s forced to deal with situations that are, on a social level, unpleasant. Leo and Topo had no way of knowing what previous job this round man had performed—perhaps, even probably, it had been something disgusting. But the end result was certain—this poor honest laborer was encircled by an odor that was excessively ripe. Even Nonno, whose olfactory senses had already come into question as far as Leo was concerned, chose to keep his distance. Only the old gray dog seemed attracted to the plumber’s powerful aroma. Of course, Nonno had seen that dog seek out rotting things lying in the sun, things that would make your stomach turn and your eyes water, and then that dog would flop down in the middle of it and roll with delight. So the dog’s recommendation didn’t count for much. Leo had a sense, however, that his pungent condition had nothing to do with any previous job and this guy hadn’t spent as much time in the sun as might be hoped.
But the fellow certainly knew his business. He stood at the edge of the hole for less than a minute before he assessed, “This pipe’s smashed.”
They were dealing with a professional. They nodded their agreement of his appraisal.
“So . . . you want me to replace it.”
It was not a question. It was a statement. This fellow not only grasped the predicament, but had the solution. They nodded at his conclusion.
“You want a valve?”
“Can you do that?” asked Leo. “No problem. Two hours.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Yeah. Don’t help.” The round plumber laughed hard. He’d used that line before.
Leo, Topo, Nonno, and the dog retreated from the edge of the hole while the plumber started about his business. They didn’t want to get too far away because there was an element of interest in how this walking bowling ball was going to negotiate the hole. But then again, they didn’t want to get too close because the wind might shift.
As it turned out, his agility was remarkable and the repair progressed with little difficulty. The only part of the operation that took any real time was when the plumber had to yank the two amateur saboteur’s discarded clothes out of the pipe. The decades of pressure on the cloth and rocks and twigs and mud, compressed between the water on one side and the large rock on the other, had created an extremely effective plug. The sturdy plumber lay in the deepening muck, tugging, hacking, prying, puffing, and cursing for over thirty minutes before a wad of debris burst out of the pipe as if it had been shot from a fire hose. The water rushed out with such a surprising force that the hole quickly turned into an ever-deepening trough. The plumber managed to keep his head above the rising water and called out, “If you still want to help, now would be a good time!”
Unfortunately, all this was more than the gray dog could stand. All he probably wanted was a drink of the cool brown water and whether he slipped or jumped would be debated later. The fact was that in a blink he was on top of the plumber and with his hind legs awkwardly wrapped around the poor man’s shoulders, all paws paddled madly. After a few desperate moments of man and beast floundering in the muddy water, sometimes both completely submerged in the brew, Nonno unceremoniously dragged the dog to dry land and the plumber managed to screw the valve onto the newly threaded pipe. The torrent finally stopped and with a jolly laugh, the plumber climbed out for a moment to rest and dry off and also to allow the hole to drain. He actually seemed to have enjoyed the adventure and Leo couldn’t help noting that his unexpected bath left him looking a shade or two lighter.
The lull was a handy time for Leo and Topo to coordinate their operation. The plumber assured them that the pipes would be connected in less than an hour. That would give Leo plenty of time to walk back to the village and get Father Elio out to the fountain. If Leo and Topo synchronized their watches, then Leo would hav
e Father Elio praying at the exact moment that Topo turned the valve. Both agreed this was a good plan, but Nonno didn’t like it. For some reason it was important to him that he turn the valve.
“I made the water go away, I must bring it back.”
Fine. Nonno turns the valve. But then the plumber had an objection to the plan too.
“You know, we don’t know what’s in the other half of that pipe. It could be clogged or broken anywhere between here and your fountain.”
Neither Leo, Topo, nor Nonno had a solution for that, so they decided to ignore it. It was a good plan; an excellent plan. All they needed to do was synchronize their watches and decide on the exact minute. Then they were ready for Leo to go back to the village and prepare Father Elio for his miracle.
On his walk back to the village Leo had time to ponder something that he hadn’t given much thought. How was he going to get Father Elio out to the fountain and praying for water at precisely 11:46? No . . . 11:45. Topo was 11:46. Topo wanted that extra minute for a margin of error. That way Father Elio would be praying for a minute before the cool, clear water began miraculously trickling out of the cherub’s jug and into the small marble top dish, cascading over the edge to the large second dish, and finally splashing merrily down into the empty pool. Leo liked the margin for error idea, even though he was sure Topo suggested it because he didn’t trust Leo’s American watch. But how was he going to get Father Elio praying for the fountain at 11:45?
By the time he was climbing the street leading to the piazza, Leo had a plan. Marta should do it. This whole dilemma was Marta’s doing. She was the one who was unforgiving. She was the one with the spiteful words and the angry looks and snarling lip. It was for her uncle! Let her do it!
By the time he reached the top of the hill he had worked himself into a pretty good fume at Marta, so instead of walking on to the piazza, he took a sharp left that put him in the backyard of the hotel. He then just followed the enticing smells coming from the kitchen. Marta was at the stove stirring a large simmering pot of what smelled to be beef stock and Leo’s stomach rumbled hungrily as he stood boldly in the doorway. He’d worked himself up for a fight and even rehearsed some potential dialogues in his mind, so he was completely disarmed when she looked over at him and said, “You must be thirsty after that walk.”
He was. She nodded toward the sink and allowed him to fill a glass twice. Leo was thrown. Her attitude wasn’t something that he could mistake as friendly, but she wasn’t yelling at him—and he had walked right into her kitchen without even asking. And how did she know about his long walk?
She turned the fire down under the pot and invited him to join her at the kitchen table, and as he sat opposite her, all his instincts told him to beware of her hospitality—it could be a trap.
“So,” she began casually, “have you decided it’s time to tell me why you and Topo have been following that crazy old man around for the last two days? Or what you were digging for? Or where Topo went yesterday? Or why that white truck is parked across the fields by the trees? Or why my uncle still thinks that God has forsaken him? Or are you just going to tell me what you think I’m supposed to do about all of this?”
Leo remembered that the upper story of the hotel commanded a view of the southern plain unrivaled in Santo Fico and he asked, “Have you told anyone about us being out there?”
“No.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, since she asked, he told her everything.
When Leo left for his long walk back to the village, the plumber climbed back into the hole to complete the repair of the shattered pipe and work progressed nicely. Topo managed to make himself useful by fetching things from the truck as the plumber requested them: lengths of pipe, couplings, caulking, wrenches. Usually, by the third trip, he either hit upon the correct tool or one that the plumber could sort of make work. Plumbing equipment wasn’t Topo’s forte.
A half an hour passed before the jolly plumber called Topo over to the edge of the hole to once again express his worries about the other obstructions he found in the pipe. He seriously doubted whether the water would be able to flow through the old pipe all the way to the piazza.
“Maybe you boys should do this on another day, after these pipes have been tested,” he suggested.
Do it another day? Topo looked down the road. In the distance he could make out Leo climbing the hill toward the village. In a few minutes he would be there. There was no trying another day.
“No. It has to be today. Are you almost done?”
“Yeah. Maybe you can carry some of this stuff back to the truck?”
Nonno was looking for an excuse to get away from the wet dog, so he called out, “I can do that.” And he began carrying tools and supplies back across the field to the plumber’s shop on wheels.
The plumber shrugged. “I’ll finish this thing up, but you understand there’s no guarantee about that fountain?”
Topo smiled and waved him onward with an air of jaunty confidence, but inside he was coming unstrung. It has to be okay, he thought as he carried a pipe cutter across the field. He sat down in the shade of the truck and tried to breathe slowly. In his mind he went over all the things Leo had said about why this plan would work. The first thing that came to mind was that they had a good plan—an excellent plan. This was going to be a miracle worth seeing. In fact, he wished he could be there to see it. This miracle would bring tears to the eyes of all who witnessed it. This miracle had definite possibilities. For instance, if tourists were willing to pay to hear religious stories, they might be willing to pay to hear this story. The town could still have the Miracle and the Mystery, only now it would be the Miracle of the Withered Fig and the Mysterious Waters of Santo Fico. And what if the miraculous waters were to someday heal some sick person? Then their fame would really spread. They could even bottle the water and sell it around the world, especially after a miracle like this . . . !
The voice of the plumber helped jolt him back to reality. “Well, I think that’s just about got it . . .”
Topo checked his watch as he walked back to the hole. They were ready and with twelve minutes to spare. The plumber was still hunched over his work, his hand resting gently on the pipe. He was frozen, concentrating intently on something. Topo wasn’t sure what the plumber was waiting for, but he waited too. After a moment, the plumber shook his head dejectedly.
“Well, I told you, no guarantees. I don’t feel anything.” Topo was confused. “What should you feel?”
“Water. I should feel the water rushing through the pipe.” “But . . . But, you wouldn’t feel that unless you turned on the valve, would you?”
The plumber stood up and began the challenging job of climbing out of the hole. “Oh, I turned the valve on. It’s on now. You can’t test it without turning the valve on. But, like I said, there’s no water going through the pipe. You got a clog.”
“The valve can’t be on! It’s not time! Not for . . .” Topo checked his watch, “. . . eleven minutes!”
The plumber was becoming as irritated with Topo as he was with the slippery sides of the hole.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. The valve is on, but nothing’s happening!”
Nonno, who was picking up a length of iron pipe to carry back to the truck, overheard the plumber’s exasperated reply. The valve had been his job!
“No,” he shouted. “I made the water go away and I bring it back! You promised, I turn the valve!”
Nonno swung around to Topo just as the plumber finally climbed out of the hole. The length of iron pipe chimed off his bald forehead like a Chinese gong and the jolly plumber went down like gravity’s best friend.
Sitting at her kitchen table, Marta listened quietly as Leo told her the story: from when Nonno came to stay with him, to his tale of the war and the Germans, to the search across the plains, to the discovery of the watch and the pipe, to the arrival of the plumber, and finally all the way to his plan for her getting Father Elio sitting by the fountai
n and praying for water at precisely 11:45, in fourteen minutes—he told her everything. She looked at him for a long time. He could tell something was bothering her.
At last she asked incredulously, “You’re letting Nonno stay with you?”
“Yes.”
“And that dog?”
“Yes.”
Leo fought to maintain his composure. He wanted to throw his arms in the air, stomp up and down, and yell at her to stick to the subject—time was definitely a factor here. But he sat patiently and concentrated on breathing instead of screaming, and to his amazement, Marta smiled.
“Water . . . I like it.”
She liked it. She thought it was a good plan; well prepared, reasonable expectations, it even had the scriptural and historical validation of some prior miracles concerning water. She liked it. She would get Father Elio by the fountain, but with less than ten minutes to go they had better hurry.
Marta never made it to the church. When she and Leo came out of the hotel they found the piazza filling up with people. There were already over a dozen villagers gathered around the fountain, with more on the way, as word of the phenomenon spread. At the center of the crowd was Father Elio. And as Leo and Marta hurried across the piazza toward the priest, they heard a sound—something deep and guttural. It sounded like the wail of a melancholy tuba, with an oboe caught in its throat. The distinctly rude noise echoed around the piazza and all of the onlookers “Ooohed” and “Aahhed” and pointed at the dusty fountain. Marta gripped her bewildered uncle’s arm fearfully.
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“This is . . . strange. I don’t know. Noises . . .” Father Elio could only shake his head. The explanation came from Maria Gamboni, who was hiding behind the old priest.
“It’s a sign for me. I was coming across the piazza, I was on my way to the church. This isn’t my day for confession, but I felt the need. So I was walking across the piazza to the church and all of a sudden the fountain called my name. It called to me! Twice! So I ran into the church and got Father Elio. Now, it only cries out in pain. But first it called my name. ‘Maria Gamboni! Maria Gamboni!’ Twice! It called my name. Twice!”