Saint Francis (13 page)

"Isn't there anything left in the sack, Brother Leo?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing but the ram's bell. We didn't pass a single village today. Are you hungry?"

"It doesn't matter. Tomorrow. This is a large city: somewhere, in some house, there will be a piece of bread the housewife baked just for us, and it will be waiting."

We crossed ourselves and lay down, glued to the gate like two leeches. Drenched and cold, we huddled close to one another again, our arms entwined.

"Brother Francis," I said, "all my life there's been something I've found perplexing. Enlighten me. Some people do not beg, and even if offered charity refuse to accept it. Others accept alms though they do not beg and still others beg actively. Which is right?"

"Holy humility requires that you hold out your hand to beg and that you accept what is given you, Brother Leo. The rest is arrogance. The rich have an obligation to the poor; let them fulfill their obligation. . . . But that's enough now. Don't ask anything else. Go to sleep; you're tired and so am I. Good night."

I realized that Francis was anxious to remain alone with God, so I stopped chattering, and closed my eyes. The whole night long it seemed to me in my sleep that I heard him talking, and sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping. The next morning we both stood in front of the gate and waited for the doorkeeper to come and open up. Peering through the grating into the courtyard, which was light now, we saw the garden with its laurels and cypresses, the marble well in its center, the rows of vaulted cells on all sides; and in the background the celebrated church which had been constructed and ornamented by strange, masterful artisans from the Orient.

The sun came up; the doorkeeper appeared with his keys. He was gaunt and sullen, barefooted, had a small, curly white beard, and was munching something between his toothless gums. As soon as he saw us his expression grew savage.

"Beggars?" he asked angrily. "The monastery hasn't any bread for the likes of you, you loafers!"

"We aren't loafers, Father Major-domo," answered Francis pleasantly. "We work, just as you do. We also have keys, and we lock and unlock."

"Lock and unlock what, swindlers!"

"The Inferno."

"The Inferno?"

"Yes, the Inferno: our hearts."

The doorkeeper growled like a vicious dog, but said nothing. Taking the key, he twisted it in the lock, drew back the bolt, and allowed us to enter. The monks were not in their cells--matins had begun; we could hear the sweet psalmody. The daylight had descended now and fully invaded the cloister garden; the birds were awake; a young monk was drawing water, leaning over the well. Standing like archangels on either side of the church were two tall cypresses, as slender and straight as swords; and in the center of the courtyard, bathed in fragrance, was a luxuriant laurel.

Francis pulled off a leaf and kissed it. Holding it upright in his hand like a lighted candle, he pushed open the church door and entered. I was thirsty, and I paused long enough for the young monk to pull up the bucket so that I could take a drink. When I had refreshed myself I made the sign of the cross, gave thanks to God for sending us thirst and water, and strode across the threshold.

The monks were seated in their stalls, chanting. The air smelled of sweet incense. The sun, entering through the stained-glass windows, was tinted red, green, and blue. I spied Francis kneeling on the flagstones with his gaze fixed ecstatically on the vault above the altar.

I lifted my eyes too. What was this miracle T saw before me? Was it Paradise? I beheld a gigantic mosaic, green, white, and gold, with Saint Apollinarius in the middle wearing his golden stole, his arms raised in prayer. Flanking him were cypresses, angels, snowy-white sheep, and trees loaded with fruit. O God, what was this greenery, this freshness, sweetness? What untroubled immortal calm; what a verdant meadow for the soul to graze in until the end of time! Even I, peasant that I am, was unable to restrain my emotion. I knelt down next to Francis and began to sob. "Quiet," Francis said softly. "Don't cry, don't laugh, don't talk. Just surrender yourself."

It seems to me that neither of us breathed a word that whole day. I don't remember how we left the church, or if the monks gave us a piece of bread, or when we entered the city. The only thing I remember is that we roamed up and down the streets looking at the people, towers, palaces and seeing nothing but a green meadow and in the middle a saint with white sheep running happily to greet him, and above, an immense cross spreading its arms and embracing the air.

Toward evening we halted at a large square, the one in whose center is the statue of Christ bearing a young sheep on his shoulders--the lost sheep which He is returning to the fold. The breadwinners were closing their workshops; the young boys and girls were arriving from their different neighborhoods to see and be seen. The rain had stopped; there was a scent of pine in the freshly bathed air. Francis grasped the ram's bell for a moment as though wanting to call the people to hear about the new madness, but he immediately changed his mind. His thoughts must have been elsewhere. He suspended the bell from the knotted cord which bound his waist and, sitting down on the ground, began to watch the inhabitants as they paraded by.

I squatted next to him. Suddenly he turned to me.

"Brother Leo, I've seen that meadow somewhere before, the green meadow where Saint Apollinarius and his herdsmen the angels graze their sheep. But where? When? I'm fighting to remember, but I can't. Was it in a dream?"

He fell silent; but suddenly he clapped his hands with delight.

"I've found it!" he exclaimed. "I've found it, praise the Lord! This worry about where and when has been bothering me for hours, but now I've found the answer." His face became suddenly radiant; his eyes filled with emeralds.

"Inside me!" he murmured happily.

Darkness was falling, and as the night advanced we heard Ravenna's many voices ever more clearly. The city was stretched out in the blackness like a myriad-headed, satiated beast, laughing, barking, neighing, singing with innumerable human, canine, and equestrian mouths, with innumerable mouths shaped like lutes and guitars. And as night overwhelmed us, for an instant it seemed to me that Christ was standing in the middle and that it was not a lamb He was carrying back to the fold: it was Ravenna.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Francis, seeing me with my eyes riveted on the stone statue of Jesus.

"I was thinking, Brother Francis, that it isn't a lamb He's holding, but Ravenna."

"It isn't Ravenna, Brother Leo; no, it isn't Ravenna. It's the world--the entire world."

We fell silent once more; and then an old man with a fierce expression came and stood before us. He was huge, with a clean-shaven upper lip and a long, tortuous white beard. In the gleam thrown out by the lanterns inside the taverns we were able to see that his sunburned face had been slashed by sword blows.

He sat down cross-legged next to us. He had overheard our last words.

"Pardon me," he said, "but I've seen you roaming, without talking, your sack empty, as though you're beggars and aren't beggars at the same time. A moment ago I finally heard you speak, and I liked what you said. For some time now I've been wondering what you might be: beggars, lazy idlers, invalids, saints? I can't seem to tell which."

Francis laughed. Raising his finger, he pointed to the statue of Christ above us.

"Look. We are the lost sheep, and we're bleating and searching everywhere for Christ. Christ is not looking for us, Father; we are looking for Him."

"And you came to find Him here in Ravenna?" the old man inquired sarcastically.

"Our Gracious Lord is everywhere," Francis replied, "but we never know where He will condescend to reveal Himself to us. Perhaps even in Ravenna."

The old man shook his white-haired head. "I was once looking for Him also," he said in a low voice, slowly stroking his white beard. "I found Him far far away at the other end of the earth, amid the hubbub of war; but to reveal Himself to me He had taken on the face of man--of a great king." He sighed: it was as though his heart were being rent in two. Francis slid over and placed his hand on the old man's knee.

"Father," he said, "I implore you in the name of Christ who is above us: tell us how and when; help us to find Him also."

The old man lowered his head and for some time did not speak. You could sense that he was silently choosing what to say and where to start, for he opened his mouth several times, but closed it again and continued his silence.

"It was in the East more than twenty years ago," he began finally; "in the holy city of Jerusalem, a strange Oriental world of perfumes and stenches. There are date palms like the ones we see on the paintings of the saints, and other trees even stranger, and a type of grapevine that grows to a man's height. The women are covered from head to foot like ghosts, and if their toenails ever happen to appear, you find that they are colored with red paint, as are their palms, and also the soles of their feet. I know because we captured a few of them alive in the war, and uncovered them and saw. . . . As for the men, the lawless Saracens: the moment they mount their horses they become one body with them and it's impossible to discover where the horse ends and the man begins. Two heads, six legs, one soul! And Sultan Saladin, their king, he's a stalwart if there ever was one. Dressed all in gold and pearls, he leaps on his horse while the animal is racing at a full gallop. His palace is full of women, fountains, yataghans, and he sits cross-legged upon the Holy Sepulcher twisting his mustache and threatening all Christendom."

Francis sighed.

"And we," he said, "my God, shame on us! We sit here idle in Ravenna, walking the streets and begging instead of rising up to deliver the Holy Sepulcher! Up, up, Brother Leo! Why are you sitting? Do you want to liberate your soul? Then liberate the Holy Sepulcher!"

"If you want to liberate the Holy Sepulcher," I objected, "then liberate your soul!"

The old man shook his head.

"That's youth for you. It thinks that if it rises up in arms it can conquer the world. I myself once did just that. I was an established citizen here in Ravenna, with children, fields, sheep, and a white horse which I loved like my own child. I abandoned everything except the horse--her I took with me. I cut two strips of red cloth, sewed them on my back to make a cross, and set out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher."

He stopped for a moment and made a gesture with his hand.