The Miracles of Santo Fico (37 page)

“You don’t know what I did. When I ran away, I said terrible things just to hurt him. I deserted him.”

“I know. He forgave you.”

“I stole my mother’s ring from him. I sold it and used the money to go to Milano.”

“I know. He told me. I remember when your Aunt Sofia found out that you had taken the ring. She said to him,
You should call the police. He stole from you. Your son’s a thief.
I was there. I remember him looking at her and saying,
How can someone steal something that already belongs to him? That ring was always his. My son is young and he’s foolish! My son is not a thief!
He forgave you years ago.”

“Did he also tell you that I struck him? That I knocked him to the ground? My God, I struck him in the face . . .”

“No. He didn’t tell me that. But now I understand why he said that his worry was that you would not be able to forgive yourself. He forgave you everything. Let it go.”

“I
am
a thief, Father. I stole the fresco.”

“I know. And you brought it back. I never did understand why you took it.”

“Money. I wanted to sell it for a lot of money, so I could run away again. I found out many years ago that our fresco could be worth a fortune. It was painted by a famous artist.”

“Oh, yes, Giotto di Bondone.”

“You knew? All these years you knew? And you said nothing?”

“Leo, what kind of an idiot are you?”

Leo sighed. Maybe it was time he started considering everyone’s assessment of his intellect. “Apparently a big one. Why?”

“I can’t believe that you told the story of the Miracle and the Mystery as many times as you did and you never figured it out. Leo, Giotto di Bondone died over two hundred years before this church was built and our fresco was painted.”

“Then . . . Then who did paint it?”

“Who knows.”

Father Elio reached up and rapped on Leo’s forehead as if he were knocking on a door. “Why do you think we call it the Mystery?” Considering the old priest’s weakened condition, Leo was startled by how much his bony knuckles hurt—but he got the point. Elio smiled. “Sometimes we have to just accept something as a mystery. Now Leo, I want to ask a big favor of you.”

“Anything.”

“I’m dying.”

The statement was so commonplace that Leo almost missed it and by the time he was coming back with his objections, Father Elio was already waving him off.

“Don’t argue with a dying man. I’m dying and there isn’t a priest . . . so, I want you to hear my confession.”

“Ohh . . . No, please, Father. We can get a priest. We can call Follonica, maybe Punta Ala. A priest could be here in no time.”

“I don’t want to confess to a priest. I can’t confess to a priest,” Elio declared harshly. He smiled at Leo. “You were the best altar boy I ever had. I want you to hear my confession. Please.”

“What do I do?”

“Nothing. Just listen to me.” The old man’s pale blue eyes flooded with tears even before he began to speak. His voice was a wrenching sob.

“I’m not a priest.”

Leo could tell that he mustn’t speak. He must sit quietly and listen. Elio recovered his breathing and bit back his tears.

“I’m not a priest. I’ve never been a priest. When I went to the university in Bologna, I wasn’t a good student. I tried. I really tried, but there was so much I didn’t understand. Mathematics and science and history . . . mostly mathematics. At the end of my first year, they told me I wouldn’t be coming back. Without the university, I wouldn’t become a priest. They said I could try and take the test again in three years. The good cardinal at the university liked me and he got me a job.”

Elio chuckled ruefully to himself. “He got me a job in a mortuary. I became an undertaker’s assistant. For the next two years my job was to dress and prepare dead bodies for the coffin. I thought it was fitting work for me . . . dressing the dead. All I ever wanted in my life was to be a priest and come back to Santo Fico and live in this church. I may as well have been dead.

“One day an old priest died and they brought him to me. I wasn’t even supposed to be working that day. But I was. Someone was supposed to bring by a nice suit for the priest to be buried in. But instead, someone brought two big suitcases. I never saw who left them. They just appeared. They were like trunks. They were filled with everything the old priest ever owned. All of his suits, and his robes, and his vestments . . . everything.

“I set the suitcases aside because someday soon, someone would come back for them. And after a few days, I moved them closer to the door. Then I moved them to the other room. Then, I took them home. The old priest and I were the same size . . . exactly the same size.

“At the end of the year, I did a terrible thing. I took those suitcases and I came home—back to Santo Fico. Then my lie began. I told everyone that I had been ordained. I wore the old priest’s clothes. I was accepted. I thought if I was a good priest, my lies wouldn’t matter. Now, I’m dying and I know they matter.”

Elio was done. He had confessed.

Leo cleared his throat. “What do I do now?”

Elio smiled wearily. “Tell me you absolve me of my sins.” “I do. I do that. I absolve you of your sins.”

Elio patted Leo’s hand. “I wish it were that easy.”

There was a rapping at the side door and Topo’s head poked into the room. His eyes were wide and he was actually trembling as he whispered, “Excuse me, Father, but there’s something out here you must see. It’s the Miracle, Father, the tree . . . You need to see it. It’s . . . amazing!”

Leo wanted to tell his friend to close the door and go away, but Elio calmed him. “It’s all right, Leo. Actually I would like to go out and sit beside the Miracle.”

So Leo put his arms beneath Father Elio and lifted him as he would a child. He was so light, the old man was. There was almost nothing to him. Leo carried him out the side door of the cathedral and into the garden.

Stepping outside, he found that besides Topo, Marta, Carmen, and Nina were also waiting there. Topo pointed in wonder at the Withered Fig. Silhouetted against a sky that showed the first, faint trace of an eastern glow, the smooth black trunk of the fig tree shimmered. Above it, from the two cracked and jagged stems, six leaves swayed gently in the morning breeze and below the leaves hung one full, ripe fig.

Leo carried Father Elio to the stone ledge beside the withered tree. Topo’s voice was a hushed whisper. “It’s a miracle . . .”

Elio was also amazed and agreed with Topo’s judgment. “It is a miracle indeed,” said the old man as he reached up and brushed one of the green leaves with the back of his hand. “It’s a miracle that after all these years this tree would blossom again . . . with oak leaves.”

Leo looked closer at the Miracle. Apparently Topo had been unable to find the leaves of a fig tree on such short notice.

Father Elio gently gripped the ripe fig that hung over his head and tugged. Those standing near enough heard the frail thread that was holding it snap. The old man held the plump fig up and examined the thread that was dangling from the stem. “And fruit too. Although after so many years it appears to be a bit stringy.” Elio smiled at Topo, who could only shrug, and Leo wanted to either throttle or hug his friend for his feeble, loving gesture.

Nina sat on the stone ledge next to her uncle. She took his hand and nestled her head against his chest as she had done so many times before and said softly, “Topo just wanted you to have a miracle.” Then she leaned into him and whispered something else. But Elio didn’t quite hear her words.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your miracle,” she repeated softly in his ear.

Her tender words hung in the air for a moment before they entered Elio’s heart like a warm wind. The simplicity and innocence of her words swirled around his head. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your miracle.” The melody of her voice, the inflection, the innocent tone, her heartfelt love swept over him like a wave from the sea. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your miracle.” The beautiful honesty of Nina’s love was like a key that he had been waiting for all his life. It was as if there had been bolts and shackles on his heart and Nina’s words were a golden key that slid into an ancient lock and opened it. His life unfolded before him like a tapestry unrolling at his feet and for the first time he was able to step back from the individual threads and he saw that the miracle that had been his life was depicted there. His life stretched out before him and for the first time he realized that it had all been a miracle—everything—every day—every accident—every coincidence—every disappointment—every joy—all of it. If he had passed mathematics at the university, he would have become a priest. If he had become a priest, he never would have been assigned the little, forgotten church at Santo Fico. It was a miracle. If he had not agreed to cover for his friend who unexpectedly left town, he would not have been at the mortuary when they brought in the old priest and his suitcases. It was a miracle. Angelica Giancarlo’s renewed heart was a miracle. Enrico Gamboni’s homecoming and Maria’s answered prayers were miracles. Nonno was released from the guilt of his heart by the water of the fountain. It was a miracle. The earthquake was a miracle. Marta’s smile and Carmen’s love for her mother were miracles. Leo’s new heart was a miracle. All around him was forgiveness and love and he understood that these two things were always miracles. It was all a miracle.

In that instant of time Elio’s life was spread out before him like a brightly sewn tapestry and the richness of the fabric and the intricacy of the weave filled his heart with joy. All he had ever wanted in his life was to be an instrument of God’s will and he finally understood—he had been.

He took Nina’s face in his hands and kissed the tears from both her eyes and sighed, “It was all a miracle.”

And then Elio leaned his white head back against the trunk of the withered fig and he thought to himself, Perhaps sleep wasn’t the enemy after all. Perhaps, he thought, after all these years, it has been nothing more than a patient friend, and he closed his eyes.

Those around him could see in the pale dawn light a great sigh go out of him. Elio leaned against the withered fig as if he were napping and they all watched the peaceful old man beneath the tree—all except Nina. She sat next to him, still holding his warm hand and her face turned toward the rosy edge of the eastern mountains, where, at that moment, a sliver of gold streamed across the sky.

“Mama,” Nina said, softly blinking, “is that the sun?”