The Miracles of Santo Fico

by D. L. Smith

  Marta wasn’t thrilled with his request, but Leo stayed quietly seated at the table while she paced around the kitchen firing off questions he wasn’t willing to answer. Why was it so important that Carmen sneak out tonight? Where was she going? Who was she meeting? Was he going to be there? What time would she be back? Leo knew that if she forced him to answer any of these particulars the whole thing would, most likely, go up in smoke.

  “You told me to do something,” Leo finally snapped at her. He hadn’t intended to be that harsh, but her belligerence was getting on his nerves. “I’m doing something. I didn’t hear you say, ‘Do something, but get my permission first.’ If you want me to mind my own business, that’s fine with me.”

  Leo sat back and waited.

  “Just tell me if you’re going to be there. I have to know someone is watching out for Carmen.”

  “I’ll be watching out for her.”

  “Okay,” Marta said with a sigh of finality. “But I’m going with you.”

  Now it was Marta’s turn to sit stoically at the table while Leo paced the kitchen, vigorously listing all the reasons why she should stay out of it.

  In the end, they compromised. Leo agreed to let Marta come along with him and Marta agreed that she would remain silent and not interfere with whatever he had in mind. They would meet on the north coast road, by the gate in the stone fence, no later than 9:30.

  Leo was at the door when he remembered something important.

  “Do you still have your father’s pistol?” “Yes.”

  “Bring it. And some bullets.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The whole day felt strange. The rising humidity added to a general feeling of uneasiness and all day people found themselves glancing at the sky, not really knowing what they expected to find there. All day, people were plagued with restless feelings that they should bring something inside, or close something, shut something, lock something. The wind began to rise in the afternoon and people nodded their heads as if to say, “See, I told you.”

  The only person who was apparently oblivious of the approaching storm was Carmen Fortino. When she left the Pizzola farm that afternoon she commented proudly that between his work outside and hers inside, the place was beginning to look presentable and Leo had to agree. In two days the house and grounds were indeed transformed, but the thing Leo found most altered was Carmen’s disposition. She was almost cheery.

  Back at the hotel, Marta noticed the difference right away. She was standing at the sink washing tomatoes when Carmen entered the kitchen and gave her a spirited hello, stole one of the large tomatoes, and sat on the kitchen table to eat. Marta could see her daughter studying her out of the corner of her eye and it made her uncomfortable. When she looked at her, Carmen only smiled strangely and continued to stare. Finally, Marta asked with a nervous giggle, “What are you looking at? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I was just looking at that dress. I like the little strawflowers. They’re a good color for you. But I don’t think it shows off your figure.”

  “My figure? What figure? Two babies took care of my figure a long time ago.”

  Carmen’s laugh was so joyful it made Marta smile in spite of herself. “You do too have a figure.”

  She leapt off the table and in an instant she was pulling the old print dress from the back. The material tightened and clung around Marta’s front. “You see? There it is! Ay-yiyi, look at that figure!”

  Marta squealed with embarrassment at Carmen’s teasing, but it was true. She still had a good figure. She laughed and tried to wriggle free, but it was out of the question since her hands were full of wet tomatoes.

  “What are you doing? Let go! My goodness, what’s got into you? Did you and Leo Pizzola spend all day drinking?”

  Carmen let go of the dress and turned her attention to her mother’s hair. She gently pushed a loose lock off her forehead.

  “Why don’t you wear your hair down sometimes? I’ll bet it would be so pretty if you wore it down.”

  Then Carmen did the most wonderful thing. She put her arms around Marta, leaned over, and kissed her mother on the cheek. And in an instant, she was bounding across the kitchen and up the stairs, humming all the way.

  Marta stood at the sink trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t swallow. She was having trouble seeing to wash the tomatoes. It had been many years since she’d allowed anyone to put their arms around her like that. And longer since she’d been kissed, even on the cheek. She stepped back and dried her eyes on a towel and her mind fought to deny what she felt.

  “Foolishness . . . My figure . . . What figure?” she grumbled. “This color looks good on me . . . Wear my hair down . . . Just to fall in the food,” she muttered. “Make my neck all hot and sticky . . . Get in my eyes . . . Ridiculous,” she mumbled.

  The window over the sink was open and the frame turned into the room. Marta could see her faint reflection in the glass. She was probably Carmen’s age when she last wore her hair down.

  Leo stood on the north coast road by the opening in the stone fence mentally kicking himself. Why hadn’t he just asked Marta to give him the pistol that afternoon? Then he wouldn’t be standing around waiting for her now. He hadn’t told her where they were going. He could just leave right now and she would have no way of following. He didn’t have his watch, but he was sure she was late because it was getting so dark. After studying the western horizon for a moment he concluded that it probably wasn’t as late as it appeared. Black clouds were blocking the sunset. Still, he should have gotten the pistol in the afternoon.

  At last a woman came walking down the road and she was carrying a small bundle—something wrapped in a shawl, but for some reason he couldn’t be sure it was Marta. Something was different. Not until she was standing in front of him could he tell exactly what it was. It was her hair. Her hair was down. It flowed in gentle billows across her shoulders and around her neck as the wind from the west continued to rise. Leo hadn’t realized it was so long and he’d forgotten how thick it was and how it shined.

  She didn’t like the way he was looking at her hair. “So,” she said abruptly, “where do we go from here?”

  Leo pointed down the road to the north. “Brusco Point. You’re wearing your hair down.”

  “So?”

  “Nothing.”

  She turned and started down the road. Leo caught the scent of her bath soap. It was lavender, or lilac, or something like that.

  “You smell good.”

  Marta stopped and faced him. Fortunately for Leo, she honestly hadn’t heard what he said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She decided to let it go and started down the road ahead of him again. Leo noticed her dress. He hadn’t seen that dress before and he wondered what kind of material it was. The cloth looked thin and smooth, but the color was so rich. It was amazing the way it appeared to be so loose and free and yet, at the same time, it seemed to cling to certain curves as she moved. Remarkable cloth. He caught up with her and they walked a ways together in silence.

  “That’s a pretty dress.”

  Marta seriously deliberated just what he might have meant by that before she formulated an appropriate response.

  “Thank you.”

  After a moment Leo added, “That color looks good on you.”

  Marta hefted the bundle wrapped in the shawl. “I’m carrying a loaded gun.”

  They walked on toward Brusco Point in silence.

  Brusco Point was less than half a kilometer down the road. It was a narrow point of land with sweeping views on three sides and gentle sandy trails that led down to a wonderful white sand beach. Sometime, many centuries ago, the Romans—or maybe even the Etruscans—had it in mind to build something at Brusco Point. If a person was willing to dig through the brambles and vines and thorny tendrils of wild berries, low stone foundations and other relics could still be found. But all that was visible to the casual visitor was an ancient stone
wall about as tall as a man. It ran for a hundred meters across the point and then disappeared. Who built the wall, or even why, was lost forever.

  Leo and Marta left the road at a well-worn trail that cut across the dunes and through clumps of razor grass as it wound down toward the beach. It was a difficult walk in the dark, especially on this night, with the wind picking up and blowing sand. Fortunately, a half-moon was rising over the mountains in the east. Although they walked in silence, both Leo and Marta were surprised at how little Brusco Point had changed. Leo felt he could almost walk the trail blindfolded, even after all these years. And although neither said anything, both were seized with the feeling that it was only last month that they had hurried across these dunes together to swim in the warm sea.

  As they labored down the sandy slope, the stone wall on their right seemed to grow more distant. But when they reached the place where the dunes leveled out, the trail cut sharply to the right and entered a grove of cedar trees and thick bushes, and there was the wall again. The thicket pushed right up against the old cut stones. Before them, a gentle drop took the trail down to a wide expanse of wet beach washed flat by the pounding surf. Beyond that the sea stretched out toward a dark-clouded horizon. The grove of cedar trees offered some shelter from the wind, but the storm was moving inland quickly and flashes of lightning sparked in the distant darkness.

  They sat silently on the warm sand trying to ignore the catalogue of memories this place brought to them. Marta sat up stiffly when she heard Leo chuckling to himself in the dark. She was sure he was laughing at her. She knew she should have tied her hair up. Here she was a grown woman, wearing her hair like a young girl, and she felt foolish.

  “What are you laughing at?” she wanted to know.

  “I was just thinking about how Topo used to steal his father’s cigarettes and we’d come down here and practice smoking.”

  The half-moon rose like a crescent lantern above the tops of the wind-bent cedars and cast enough pale light across the sand to make Leo and Marta feel suddenly exposed. So they moved back into the bushes in front of the stone wall where they could observe the trail and the beach, and still remain hidden. Their new sanctuary was cramped and they were forced to stand with their backs pushed against the wall and each other, but Leo assured Marta they wouldn’t have to wait long. He had again become uncomfortably aware of the sweet flower fragrance of Marta’s bath soap and she tried to ignore where her bare arm pressed against his back. She could feel him breathing. They waited. After only a few uneasy moments she demanded, “How long before something happens?”

  Leo had become used to the edge in her voice and tried to ignore it. “I don’t know what time it is. Ten minutes maybe.”

  Even in the shadows of the bushes Marta could see the dark outline of Leo’s face. He was watching the trail that wound across dunes coming down from the road, but she could see nothing. Now the trees began to toss as the wind continued to rise and still Leo stared at the dunes, looking for something in the darkness, and Marta could feel her hair on her shoulders. She was glad that when he had laughed, it wasn’t at her and she too remembered when they came here to smoke. She remembered when they came here to swim. She especially remembered the last time, when Leo had refused to swim with her.

  Marta didn’t know she was going to speak until the words were already coming out of her mouth, but standing together in the shadows she knew she must. Much more in her heart than her head, she knew that if she didn’t ask him now, in this instant, then she would never ask—she would never know. Sometimes the moment is just there and it’s best if we don’t think too much. Sometimes we have to push fear and pride out of the way and just let things fall where they will, because possibility, like the future, can vanish in an instant— forever. Marta didn’t think all of this, of course, but she knew this was such a moment and she felt she might never have the courage again—so she spoke.

  “Could I ask you something?” she whispered.

  “Sure.”

  Leo was prepared for another question about Carmen or maybe his plan for the evening, but he wasn’t prepared for what she asked.

  “The night before my wedding, when you came to my window, and you told me that you loved me . . . and you begged me to not marry Franco, but to run away with you— did you already know about Franco’s whore in Grosseto?”

  Leo hoped he hadn’t heard her correctly, but he was sure he had. Her words were soft, almost a whisper, but she’d spoken the words right into his ear. He had heard her. There was no anger and he was struck by how impersonal the question sounded. Why did she ask? What did she want? Why couldn’t Carmen arrive early? He had no idea what to say. Since Sofia de Salvio died on the back of Franco’s motorcycle, tearing across the countryside in the middle of the night, and Marta called her Franco’s whore, he assumed Franco’s secret was out.

  “Did you know about her then?”

  “Yes.”

  “That night, Franco got in a fight in Grosseto. Was it with you?”

  “Yes.” “Why?”

  “We just fought sometimes.”

  “Is that why you said all those things to me? Because you felt sorry for me?”

  There was something wrong with her voice. She was asking him terrible questions, but she didn’t sound angry or hurt or accusing. Her voice was soft and close to his ear. He wanted to see her face, but he couldn’t turn. She was behind his shoulder, pressed too close in the darkness for him to see her eyes.

  “Tell me. Was it because you felt sorry for me?”

  Of course he had felt sorry for her. He had felt sorry for her since he was fourteen and Franco saw the way Leo looked at Marta. From the moment Leo had told Franco how he felt about Marta, he was sorry. Franco was his best friend and best friends tell each other things. But Leo didn’t really know Franco—maybe no one did. Leo had no way of knowing that by telling Franco of his feelings for Marta, he would only stir something in Franco—not love, but greed. Franco was selfish. If Leo wanted Marta, then Franco wanted her too. And on that day began a competition that Leo would never understand, but it ended a friendship that had meant the world to him and also cost him the first and best love he would ever know.

  For Franco, it was just another competition, but instead of a foot race, or swimming, or wrestling, the prize was a person. Leo knew he didn’t stand a chance against the handsome, funny, charming Franco. But that night in Grosseto, the night before their wedding, Leo glimpsed the monster Franco would become. And he also saw Marta’s future.

  He and Topo had begged Franco not to go to Grosseto. But it was his party and so they sat at that table at Il Cavallo Morto, watching Franco drink and tease the inconsolable Sofia de Salvio. Everyone knew Franco preferred Sofia to Marta because she got drunk with him, and smoked, and laughed at his dirty jokes. But not that night, the night before his wedding. That night she sat on his lap and cried miserably and begged him to stay with her. Franco thought Leo was asleep with his head on the table when he whispered to Sofia that he would never leave her, but tomorrow he was going to “marry the finest hotel, restaurant, and bar on the Toscana coast.” And then they both laughed at the big joke Franco was playing on Marta. That was when Leo leapt across the table and tried to kill Franco.

  It was as if, for the first time, he saw all the conceit and meanness that had always been in Franco, but hidden, or maybe just ignored. And in that instant, when he finally did recognize Franco, he also saw all the grief that would be Marta’s future. My God, anyone would have felt sorry for her. But later that night, when he stood in her dark bedroom and finally spoke his heart, it had nothing to do with his rage at Franco or feeling sorry for Marta or even being drunk. He was sober. He just had to either confess what he felt or explode. Did he feel sorry for her? What could he say?

  “Marta, this was years ago. What is it you want?”

  “I want someone to finally be honest with me. I’ve spent so long with people lying to me, trying to protect me, and keeping secrets
from me. My life hasn’t . . . It wasn’t good. I think maybe, it’s time to let go of some of it. I just want someone to be honest with me. Did you say those things because you felt sorry for me?”

  “No.”

  Marta was quiet for a long time. Leo wished he had lied. He wished he had said, “Yes, I said those things because Franco didn’t love you. In the beginning he just wanted to beat me. In the end he just wanted the hotel. Yes, I felt sorry for you!” Leo wished he’d said that, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d said, “No.” And that meant that everything he swore to her in the dark had been true. Marta knew at last, and for sure, that Leo had loved her.

  “Why did you wait until it was too late to tell me those things?”

  “Because you loved Franco.”

  Neither spoke for a long time. They stood in the darkness, so close they could feel the other breathing, and they waited for Carmen to arrive. The storm wind off the ocean was warm and strong. It blew the cedar trees and tossed leaves around them. The smell of rain was thick on the air. When Marta spoke again, her voice sounded distant to Leo, as if she’d gone somewhere far away.

  “I remember coming here to swim. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember one day we were supposed to go swimming down here, except something had happened. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt it—it was between you and Franco. It was something bad. You said you couldn’t go swim. You had to go home. You had to work in the olive grove . . . and you were so angry. Do you remember?”

  Leo remembered. He remembered the terrible, ugly stories Franco had told him that day about what he and Marta had done. He remembered his tears as Franco described Marta in his arms, kissing her and touching her. He remembered the shove, then the fists, the fight, and the names. He realized years later that Franco had lied about the whole thing, but the damage was done. In Leo’s mind Marta belonged to Franco. Franco had won, and he had lost.