The Miracles of Santo Fico (25 page)

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 fountain 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!”

From deep inside the fountain came another low, rumbling burp—rather like an entire brass section had gas. Marta heard Leo whisper to himself, “I never should have left Topo alone.”

Obviously something had gone wrong, but maybe all was not lost. Someone just needed to seize the moment, so Marta shouted with great conviction, “Uncle Elio, you must pray for the fountain!”

Leo was inspired by Marta’s boldness and he quickly added his voice, “Yes, Father Elio, please! You must pray for the fountain!” The ancient marble belched again. “And quickly,” Leo added.

Both were astounded at how the cry was picked up by their frightened neighbors. In a matter of moments the piazza was filled with pleas for prayers from the venerable priest. He would drive away these evil spirits! He would make their fountain be quiet again!

Father Elio raised both his hands and held them sternly up to the offending fountain—much like Moses preparing to command the Red Sea. The crowd hushed and Father Elio’s brows furrowed as he prepared a harsh prayer of reproach. He opened his mouth to speak, but from off in the distance came the insistent blare of a horn. With every second it got louder, until at last, the plumber’s little white truck tore up the hill and skidded into the piazza, spilling plumbing supplies in every direction. In the back, Nonno and the gray dog peered over the cab like twin ambulance lights. The truck screeched to a stop between the fountain and the hotel and the engine died, just as . . .

The fountain belched again.

Leo, Marta, Father Elio, and everyone else in the piazza, or anywhere near the piazza, gathered around the truck. In the back Nonno sat beside the prone body of the plumber. He looked like he might be sleeping peacefully, except for the huge purple welt in the center of his forehead.

Topo stuttered in Leo’s direction, “I think we may need a doctor.”

“My God! What did you do to him?” asked Leo.

Topo shot Nonno a withering glare. Nonno looked to be on the verge of tears.

“He . . . bumped his head,” Topo offered weakly. Nonno nodded gratefully. “Really hard.”

The fountain belched twice, but no one noticed the appearance of tiny bits of mud that splattered the piazza cobblestones.

Father Elio stepped to the back of the truck and quickly took charge. In a matter of moments ice appeared from the hotel, then bandages, and then a glass of wine. In a short time the old priest had the plumber’s wound swathed in cool towels, and to the relief of all, especially Nonno and Topo, the round fellow began to stir. Within a minute or two he was trying to get up, which was no mean feat under the best of conditions. Sitting up in the back of the truck, the poor plumber was dazed, but he was going to live. And after a moment of initial bewilderment, he fixed on Father Elio, who was sitting next to him, and gave the old priest a long, strange look—and Father Elio gave it right back to him. Finally the plumber broke the awkward silence.

“Hey . . . Father Elio. You look like hell. When’d you get so old?”

“Rico . . . ? Enrico Gamboni?”

“Sure, who do you think?”

Everybody standing around the truck gasped and stepped back as if they’d met a ghost, for everyone knew the legend of the mysterious disappearance of Enrico Gamboni. If this dazed mound of humanity was actually Enrico Gamboni, then he was back from the dead. The plumber, though, was even more confused than the crowd. He looked around at the terrified faces, who watched him as if he were Lazarus stepping out of the tomb.

“Wait a second! This is Santo Fico, but . . . who are these people? What am I doing here?”

“Rico, do you know where you’ve been?” Father Elio asked as if he were questioning a dim child.

“Sure. I been . . . I been . . . I been . . . Where the hell have I been?”

“What do you remember?”

“I remember . . . I remember . . .” It was as if the fat plumber was reaching through a fog to put together some shadowy puzzle in his mind.

“I remember, I needed a new oil pump for the boat. I was gonna go to Grosseto, but as I was walking down to the bus, I had a hunch I should go to Follonica. So I did. But I couldn’t find the pump in Follonica, so I took the bus to Piombino. Now, in Piombino, I went down to the harbor . . . and I was walking . . . someplace . . . and something fell on my head . . .” His voice trailed off as his huge sausage fingers gently touched a jagged scar along the top of his bald head. “. . . Something big.”

At that moment the fountain released an enormous rude belch and huge globs of foul-smelling mud spewed from the jug of the fat cherub who was balanced on the top dish. And then again. And again, even louder. And suddenly the top of the fountain became like an exploding volcano, showering globs of reeking mud and silt down on the crowd. The villagers screamed as the black ooze rained on them, and still with each unmannerly flatulence from the fountain, more mud and gunk shot into the air.

When he saw all this, Enrico Gamboni grabbed Topo by the shirt and pointed triumphantly at the geyser of mud showering the piazza and shouted, “I told you, you got a clog!”

After a few more moments of violent burping the erupting fountain quieted and slowly the mud thinned to an oozing goo and then thinned again to a watery brown soup. Shortly all the eruptions stopped and only cool, clear water gushed merrily from the happy cherub’s jug at the top of the fountain, filling his dish, and spilling into the larger dish, and then splashing into the empty, waiting pool.

Enrico Gamboni looked around the back of the pickup truck as if he’d just discovered himself sitting on the surface of the moon.

“Hey! Wait a second . . . Am I a plumber?”

Father Elio reached around behind himself and, after some struggle, pried Maria Gamboni’s fingers loose from his black jacket. Her terrified eyes were like two great unblinking moons and, for the first time that Elio could recall, she was speechless. She was also a bit wary about getting too close to whatever it was in the back of the truck—either ghost or demon. But the priest put his arm around her trembling shoulders and firmly pulled her forward.

“Here’s someone who would like to say hello.”

Maria waved her bony fingers weakly in the phantom’s direction. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Hello, Rico . . . Remember me?”

The plumber’s face lit up like a rising moon. He climbed out of the truck and took Maria’s quivering hand.

“Well, at last somebody who looks just the same. Still as pretty as ever.” Maria Gamboni actually blushed.

That afternoon the piazza was busier than it had been in many years. There was much to do. First of all, everybody in Santo Fico felt the need to help clean the mud and the decades of dirt from their fountain. Then, every man, woman, child, and dog in town needed to spend some time sitting on the edge of the fountain, dangling their feet in the water, walking out to the cascading dishes, touching it, tasting it. Young people, like Carmen and Nina and the de Parma grandchildren, needed to dance in the pool, splash one another, and kick water at passersby. And Nonno, with the old gray dog, needed to hold court at the edge of the fountain and explain a hundred times how he found his watch and repaired the pipe—occasionally adding how he turned the valve. Enrico Gamboni needed to be patted on the back, thanked for fixing the fountain, and welcomed home. Mostly it needed to be confirmed that he was flesh and not spirit—as if at his size there could be any doubt. Father Elio had not seen this much happiness in Santo Fico for many years. In fact, there were only three people who didn’t seem to share in the joy of the day.

Topo left first. He muttered something about having work to do in his fix-it shop. Then Marta went back into the hotel; she had beef stock on the stove. Leo tried to speak to Marta, but she was so disappointed she couldn’t even glare in his direction. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t his fault; and he wanted to shout after her that even she thought it was a good plan, but the piazza was too crowded.

Next to him, Enrico Gamboni still sat on the tailgate of the little white truck next to his reclaimed bride. Leo heard them talking softly to each other.

“You smell funny,” observed Maria.

“I’ve been a plumber.”

“Oh. Maybe that’s it.”

“Is it bad?”

Maria gave him a sniff and thought for a moment. “At least it’s not fish.”

Leo was on his way home when Father Elio, sitting on the steps of the church, motioned him over. Leo wanted to go home, but he joined the old priest for a moment.

“Thank you for what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Leo.

“Nonno says you did. I wanted to thank you.”

Father Elio patted Leo’s arm and Leo noticed that the thin hand was trembling. The old man smiled at him, but Leo only saw gaunt cheekbones and dark circles under tired eyes. Marta’s plea to save her uncle before it was too late echoed in his mind and Leo wanted to go home.

“I didn’t do anything,” he snapped and abruptly started off down the street. The last thing he needed right now was Father Elio thanking him for anything.

But Elio called after him, “Look at the happiness you brought. Look at the fountain. Look at the people. Look at Maria Gamboni. Look at the happiness you made.”

Leo just stomped down the street trying to ignore the old priest’s words. He was in no mood to hear about any good deed or the happiness of Santo Fico, and he certainly didn’t want Father Elio attributing it to him.

“Happiness,” he grumbled to himself. “Let’s see how happy Maria Gamboni is when she finds out her husband’s got another wife and five kids in Piombino.”

SIXTEEN

T
he next few days were difficult. Marta went to the church at least three times every day and even though her Uncle Elio always greeted her with a smile, she saw that he was weak. When he walked, his step was slow and his feet shuffled across the stones. When they talked, he was easily distracted and always seemed to be thinking of other things. But what frightened her most was the way he frowned at the plates piled with wonderful food she spent hours cooking. She filled her days wracking her brain trying to recall his favorite meals, but all of her efforts only made him unhappy. And so the third night after the episode with the fountain, she stopped bringing food and brought instead a large bowl of steaming vegetable broth and a glass of wine. It only took a few minutes of convincing before the old man accepted the broth and wine as merely variations of water. He hadn’t dis-avowed water. He finished the entire bowl, drank the wine, and went to bed. That night he slept better than he had since the earthquake. Marta switched to broths.