The Miracles of Santo Fico (36 page)
Then, since he was already awake, he turned out the lights in the church and went out to the garden. He sat on the stone ledge that surrounded the Miracle and leaned his back against the thin trunk of the old fig tree. This was his favorite place to pray, but he had become a bit nervous about sitting there ever since the earthquake collapsed part of the stone wall. It would be awful if someone happened by, saw him leaning against the fig tree, and thought he was pretending to be Saint Francis. Of course, he wasn’t. He just loved leaning against the old tree, knowing that the blessed saint had done the same thing. That night after the storm he lost track of how long he sat and prayed. When he finally rose to return to bed, the joints in his legs were painful and his whole body felt chilled from the dampness.
It was only the most dedicated few who came to early mass, even on Sunday, and it was they who first began to worry about Father Elio. He was never late for mass and for him to miss a mass was unthinkable—especially a Sunday mass. But no one, not even Maria Gamboni, had the courage to go back to Father Elio’s quarters to check on him. They were much less concerned for his privacy than they were fearful of what they might find. Angelica Giancarlo was the most disappointed of all. Not only was it a brand-new Sunday morning for her, but this was to be her first mass in many years. She was the one that finally made the trek across the piazza to the hotel and politely, almost shyly, told Marta her concerns.
Nina was the first to arrive. When she heard Angelica telling her mother that Father Elio wasn’t at mass, Nina bolted from the kitchen and Marta had trouble catching her. Father Elio tried to pass the whole thing off as a slight chill, but his sallow color and sunken eyes frightened Marta. She left Nina sitting at his bedside holding his hand while she went to his kitchen and prepared a bowl of boiled oatmeal with a bit of milk and honey. When she brought it to him he tried to remind her of his fast, but Marta scolded him so harshly that she shocked both Elio and Nina. The old man finally allowed her to feed him a bit of the boiled oatmeal and almost at once he began commenting on how good it tasted. Marta made sure he ate the whole thing and when he was done Uncle Elio announced that he would like to take a nap—but for her to be sure to tell those he had disappointed that morning that he would be there for the evening mass. Then he closed his eyes. Nina held his hand until she was sure he was asleep.
How people might know these things is a mystery, but there is always a difference between a rumor and a surety. That Father Elio was ill was a surety. Who started spreading the word of his condition and his promise for an evening mass was unknown. It was probably either Maria Gamboni or the Saraceno sisters—it may have been both. Who it was didn’t matter. The important thing was that by mid-morning word of Father Elio’s condition had spread from door to door, leapt across streets from window to window, and scampered around corners until, at last, all of Santo Fico was buzzing. By midday it was almost impossible to make a phone call into Santo Fico. The lines were all busy. As all this was going on, Father Elio slept for the rest of the day, the thick stone walls protecting him from the commotion going on outside.
By the afternoon, what began as a trickle had become a steady stream of cars and trucks bumping across the dry plains in the south and up the tortuous little road toward Santo Fico’s piazza. Leo was on his way to the olive grove when he noticed the unusual cloud of dust hovering over the north coast road. It was only when he walked up to the opening in the stone fence that he discovered the line of slow-moving traffic working its way past his gate and up the hill. So he followed the parade into town.
It was at about this time that the first fishing trawlers started appearing on the northern and southern horizons. They all patiently and courteously waited their turn to enter the narrow jetty, but soon all the berths at the pier were filled. As more boats arrived, they dropped anchor in the little harbor and the occupants caught skiffs to the shore. By evening there was barely room to sit down in Santo Fico.
Father Elio was weak, but as the hour for evening mass approached he insisted that Nina help him from his bed. He’d promised an evening mass and he wouldn’t disappoint them again. When he’d heard that Angelica Giancarlo was among those who had attended in the morning, his heart leapt for her. He would not fail her again.
For some odd reason, his kitchen seemed to be a hotbed of activity. Marta, Carmen, and Nina were there and although he was used to them being in his kitchen, it was rare to have them all there at the same time. On his pine table was a familiar tray with a large bowl of thick vegetable soup, fresh bread, and a glass of red wine. The smell of the broth was marvelous and he allowed himself to be bullied into eating again. And Leo kept turning up for some strange reason. Elio noticed that Marta’s anger toward Leo seemed to have evaporated and was now being replaced by something else—but he tried not to show that he noticed. Then there was Carmen, whose attitude toward her mother also seemed to have experienced a drastic change. Carmen hung on her mother’s every word and couldn’t stop touching her. Then there was Topo, who never came near the church unless he wanted to borrow some electricity for his moving pictures. But today he apparently had a number of questions for Leo, so both men were popping in and out unexpectedly all afternoon.
Father Elio found the activity of his suddenly bustling little kitchen exciting, but confusing. He sat at the table nibbling the bread and picking at the soup, most of the time handicapped by the use of only one hand because Nina seemed unwilling to release the other one. So the two of them sat together like the calm eye of a quiet hurricane that swirled around them. Finally, he told them they had to leave. He’d eaten enough and he had to prepare for mass.
It was then that Father Elio made an odd request. He asked Leo to stay. He explained to Leo that he was still feeling a bit shaky and chilled. “Besides,” he said, “you were the best altar boy I ever had.”
Nina asked if she could stay also and he agreed, so the three of them went to the vestry where Elio discovered his vestments had already been laid out. Someone had cleaned and pressed them and Leo held the garments for the old priest as he had done when he was a boy. Neither of them spoke and both were pleased with how smoothly the ritual was performed. Then Nina helped her uncle down the few meters of stone corridor and a curious glow from within the church pulled the old priest forward.
When Father Elio stepped out of the corridor and stood in the doorway of the church his knees almost buckled beneath him. The odd glow he had seen came from hundreds of candles that filled the great room. There were candles in the candle stands that hung from the walls and piers. They gleamed from the great chandelier above the altar that had not been lit in decades. The candles in the great brass candelabrum that surrounded the altar glowed so brightly they almost hurt his eyes.
And everywhere were faces—hundreds and hundreds of faces. There were people everywhere—more people than lived in Santo Fico. People took up all the room on all the benches. People stood in the side aisles. People stood at the back. People stood in the choir. Everywhere he looked, there were silent smiling faces. And Father Elio knew all those smiling faces too, though most he had not seen for many years. Hundreds of faces that once lived in Santo Fico and then spread throughout the whole region. There were old and wrinkled faces that he recognized as companions of his youth. There were the middle-aged faces of those that he had married. There were the younger faces of those that he had christened. Everywhere were the faces of his family and neighbors—the faces of his life. There was Maria Gamboni sitting beside her retrieved love Enrico, the jolly plumber. There was Topo sitting beside Angelica Giancarlo, although her hair looked different. It was soft now, and sitting beside her was her mother. Father Elio hadn’t seen Signora Gian-carlo in church for many years. In a back corner was Nonno and beside him was the gray dog. Saint Francis would have liked having the dog in his church, thought Elio. And there was Angelo de Parma and his wife and his grandchildren. Smiling in the front row was Carmen and there was a handsome young man beside her, holding her hand. And then there was Marta sitting in the front row and she was smiling too. Tears came to his eyes when he saw Marta’s smile. Everyone was beaming and the room was so silent you could hear the candles burn.
Leo helped Father Elio up the stairs of the altar and then he took Nina to the front row. From where Father Elio stood at the altar he could see into the northern transept. The two display lights shone on a large sheet of plywood that leaned against the back wall and the broken pieces of the fresco covered the plywood like a giant jigsaw puzzle. From where he stood at the altar, and with the angle of the plywood, the benign face of Saint Francis seemed to be looking Elio right in the eyes and from that angle he also appeared to be smiling.
It had been Topo who had approached Leo earlier in the day and confessed that he no longer wanted his share of the fresco. He told Leo that he would help him with the miracles because he had said that he would—but Leo could have all the fresco money. Topo would be staying in Santo Fico a while longer. It seems that Angelica Giancarlo had asked him to come to her house for dinner next Friday. She wanted Guido to meet her mother. And they had even spoken of going into Follonica sometime to see a movie. She liked him.
“So, you can see,” Topo declared, “it’s impossible for me to make any plans on leaving Santo Fico right now—or maybe even anytime soon.”
The way Leo nodded his head slowly, weighing this bold pronouncement, made his little friend nervous.
“Well, I see,” said Leo. His voice was low and even. “But, since you say you’re willing to help me, then we still have one more job to do.”
It took them much of the afternoon to put all the pieces back in the small room where the painting had always belonged. Now it shone like a new jewel and few even knew of its short holiday. Leo stood in his place at the altar, behind Father Elio, and remained quiet and attentive, like the best altar boy in Santo Fico—while Father Elio performed the greatest mass of his life.
For those in the cathedral that night, it was like being one word in a great poem that had no end or a single note of music in an extraordinary chorale that rolled on forever. They were all part of a ritual and the ritual was sacred and it was timeless—and still Father Elio seemed to dedicate each word to each person, individually. He spoke of forgiveness. He spoke with simple words of everyone’s need to accept what comes to them without recrimination or bitterness. Leo had to smile when the old man said softly, “We should face our struggles with the courage of a butterfly.” Father Elio knew that for this particular mass, on this particular evening there was a spirit alive in his church that had not visited there for many years and he was filled with joy.
There were only two moments that were difficult for him. The Eucharist was exhausting. He had never performed the ceremony for so many people. Leo stayed at his side, supporting him and bringing more elements. Nina tried waiting with her mother, but she became concerned for her uncle. She sensed that the ceremony was taking too long and insisted that Uncle Elio wasn’t strong enough. She became so fretful that Marta had to take the girl to Father Elio’s side where she gripped his arm and refused to leave him for the rest of the mass. Finally, Leo whispered to him that they had run out of Host and Father Elio sadly informed those that had yet to participate that they didn’t have enough elements. But no one seemed to mind.
The other moment that was difficult for Elio was the plea of, “Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa.” Everyone heard his hoarse voice crack when he implored God to forgive him, but none understood why this plea seemed to be wracked from the depth of his soul.
At last it was done.
His parishioners wiped their eyes and sat in silence. Nobody moved. The mass was over, but everyone felt there was more that must be expressed; only no one knew how to say what was in all their hearts. It was Angelica Giancarlo, with her background as an actress, who understood instinctively how to handle an awkward moment of such rich drama. She stood and applauded. At first most were shocked, but within seconds others understood the appropriateness of the gesture and they too rose to their feet. Many actually cheered.
Father Elio stood at the foot of the altar and raised his hand and waved to them and his lips moved silently. He wanted to say something, but instead he just sank to his knees and then fell to the ground. He lay on the cold stone floor with Nina still at his side, still clutching his hand.
It was Father Elio who begged not to be moved. For some reason it was important to him that he stay where he had collapsed, there at the foot of the altar. Topo brought pillows and a blanket from Father Elio’s bedroom and they made him comfortable there on the stone floor. His congregation filed quietly, respectfully, past him—some wanted to touch his hand or whisper something special, but most were content with a simple wave good-bye. And soon they were alone. Marta and the girls and Leo and Topo sat with him throughout the night. They talked and laughed about many things while the candles burned down. Mostly, Elio reminisced. He spoke of people and events that they hadn’t heard of and some they had. And so they whiled away the night with stories.
It was near dawn when Elio asked if he could be alone with Leo. There were a few protests about leaving him, but the old man was insistent and finally even Nina released his hand and allowed herself to be led away.
Leo sat beside the old man, wondering if the priest was finally going to chastise him about the fresco. But Father Elio had other things on his mind.
“You know, Leo, there are some things you should understand about your father. He forgave you for running away many years ago. He asked me to tell you that, when I thought you would be ready to hear it. I don’t know if you’re ready to hear it, but I’m running out of time when I’ll be able to tell you.”
