Saint Francis (44 page)

"Yes, at first. But later you will come closer to God, and then you'll even stop eating wolves."

Francis suddenly fell silent. He had discovered a silver amulet on Captain Wolf's broad hairy chest. There were some words engraved on the amulet, but with his impaired sight he was unable to read them.

"What do you have there, my brother? What are these words you carry about with you?"

The bandit chief blushed from shame. With a yank he removed the amulet from his neck. "Old sins. Don't read it!" he said, about to throw it into the bushes.

"No, no, I want to, Brother Lamb. All your sins have already been forgiven. The wolf is dead. Long live the lamb!"

He brought the amulet close to his eyes, and read: "Enemy of God and man."

Captain Wolf took it from Francis' hands, crushed it, and threw it away. "Friend of God and man!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to order another amulet and have 'Friend of God and man' written upon it. And now, until tomorrow! Climb up the mountain the count gave you. I'll come first thing in the morning and built you two shelters of branches and mud. Then I'll go back down to stand watch--and heaven help the man who tries to pass without my permission."

He reflected for a moment.

"Wait--I'd better go along with you now. I'll guide you. There aren't any trails on the mountain, and you might get lost."

He clasped Francis in his meaty arms and lifted him up like an infant.

"Let's go," he said. "You don't need a donkey, Father Francis."

An hour later we reached a flat exposed area. Towering in the center was an imposing oak densely covered with leaves. Francis addressed our guide:

"Brother Lamb--that's what I'm going to call you from now on--Brother Lamb, when you build my hut tomorrow, please build it beneath this oak; and set Brother Leo's a little further off, far enough so that we won't be able to see each other and so that if I call him, he won't hear. I must be completely alone on this mountain, my brother." "With pleasure, Father Francis. And tomorrow I'll bring you bread, olives, and whatever else I find. I don't want either of you to die of hunger, because I've never heard anyone claim that dead men are able to pray. Every so often, therefore, I'm going to bring you all you need to keep you from kicking the bucket. I'll steal from the rich to feed the poor. And why not? Isn't that just? Why shake your head, Father Francis? Without a doubt it wasn't God who portioned out the goods of this world, but Satan--which explains why the distribution is so illegitimate. I am simply going to restore things to their proper places."

Having said this, he kissed Francis' hand and vanished into the night.

IT IS WITH BOTH terror and unspeakable joy that I bring to mind the days we lived on Monte Alvernia--days, months, or was it years. Time hovered above us like a falcon and beat its wings with such rapidity that it seemed not to be moving at all. The moon rose and set, sometimes like a sickle, sometimes like a silver disk. At times the snow began to melt and the water ran down the slopes of Alvernia just as Francis' prayers did, fructifying the plain; at other times it fell and accumulated, rose-colored in the morning, flashy- white at midday, bluish in the evening. It came without noise, tightly girdling our two huts. Each morning Francis stepped onto the white blanket and scattered crumbs from the bread which Brother Lamb (God bless him!) regularly brought to keep us from dying of hunger. The birds had come to take this for granted. They surrounded Francis' hut at the break of dawn, urging him to appear. One sparrow hawk had grown particularly bold: each morning it circled the hut and screeched loudly in order to wake him.

The cold was frightful. Our robes had long since been reduced to shreds, and the wind swished through them, turning our skin blue. It was indeed a wonder I was able to survive such an ordeal without joining the choir invisible! Perhaps Francis was right when he said that whoever thinks of God keeps warm in winter and cool in summer. I must say that I had God in my thoughts with extraordinary frequency on that inhuman mountain, but on the other hand I also thought quite often about a pot boiling away over a roaring fire, and heated wine with a generous spoonful of pepper thrown in to warm one's bones, and the table set, and the whole world filled with the aroma of roast pig. Who would care then if the snow was packed over your head outside? The door would be bolted and neither snow, cold, nor hunger able to enter. Security! Security! And God would not be forgotten either, for after you had eaten and drunk your fill you would lift your arms to the ceiling, safely inside your house, and thank the Almighty for having made fire, pigs, and doors. . . .

If anyone is wondering about Francis, there was no danger of his suffering from either cold or hunger, because God, an unquenchable fire, burned within him day and night, and because the bread of the angels stood constantly before his lips, warm, white, and fragrant. Despite this, my concern for him tormented me on occasion and made me leave my shelter to see what was happening. I used to observe him go each morning, noon, and evening to the black cave which was his accustomed place of prayer. And what a miracle I saw! When he set out to speak with God both his stature and way of walking were entirely different from when he had finished and was returning to his hut. When he departed he was stunted, humpbacked, exhausted, and he stumbled through the snow, constantly falling and dragging himself again to his feet. But when he had completed his prayer and begun to return: What presence he had! What a giant emerged from the black cave! With towering, erect body, he strode gallantly through the snow, and above his head was a fiery column of air ten times his own height.

Forgive me, Lord, if I felt envious when I saw him like this. What was he made of--pure steel? pure spirit?--to enable him never to be hungry or cold, and never to say "enough"? As for me, I shivered day and night, and was starving, and had neither the inclination nor the strength for prayer--nor the impertinence, for even if I had raised my eyes and arms to heaven, my thoughts would have remained down below on earth, far down indeed, and the words which I would have said to God would have been nothing but iridescent bubbles, full of air.

It was three or four days since I had last lifted my hands to heaven. Brother Lamb came as usual to leave me our alms: bread, olives, goat's cheese, and whatever else he found.

"Do you want me to light a fire?" he asked.

"No," I answered with a sigh. "Brother Francis doesn't permit fires."

"Why?"

"Because it's cold out, he says."

"But that's exactly when you need a fire, you idiot."

"That's exactly why we don't want one."

"Well then, what do you use to keep warm?"

"God."

Captain Wolf shrugged his shoulders.

"Turn everything upside down if you want; it's your own affair. As for me, I'm going back to my cave, where I've got a pile of thick logs blazing away on the hearth. The pot is on, Brother Leo. Yesterday I killed two partridges and I'm preparing them with rice. Are you coming to have a bite, Brother Leo--to grease your innards, warm your bones, poor devil?"

My mouth began to water.

"Oh, gladly, gladly, my brother, if I only wasn't afraid of Brother Francis."

"He doesn't have to find out."

"But it's my duty to tell him."

"Supposing you do. What will he do to you?"

"Nothing. He'll sigh, that's all--and a knife will pierce my heart."

"As you like, Brother Leo. All the same, keep the partridges in mind--partridges, steaming rice, abundant wine, and a roaring fire. Repeat it over and over again to yourself like a charm--partridges, steaming rice, abundant wine, roaring fire--and perhaps you'll come. Until then . . ."

He rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet on the ground to thaw them out.

"Aren't you afraid of God, my brother?" I asked.

"I'm not afraid of men, so how can you expect me to be afraid of God?"

He began the descent, and the mountain echoed with his laughter.

I was left alone. Never had the wilderness and my own utter solitude seemed so unbearable. Partridges, steaming rice, abundant wine, roaring fire . . . I got up and went as far as the door, where I stopped. "Shame on you, disgraceful Leo! When Brother Francis finds out, how will you endure his sigh? Stay in your hut. Dry bread is good too, and so is the cold. Others have the right to eat their fill and to keep themselves warm; you don't! You have other rights, much greater ones." "Such as . . . ?" "Need you ask? By means of your life you will show others the road to salvation." "And what if I die?" "So much the better. In that case you'll show others the road to salvation by means of your death. You have put on the angelic vestment, the frock. You are not a man any more, but neither are you an angel: you stand in the middle. Did I say 'stand'? No, you aren't standing, you are progressing toward the angelic--progressing little by little, with each of your good deeds." "I'm still a man; in fact I seem to be growing continually more human. Give me your permission just this once, and afterwards I'll become an angel, a real angel, I swear to you!" "Do as you like. You are free. Depart freely for the Inferno if you like--I won't stand in your way. Have a nice trip!"

My head whirling, I went back inside the hut and sank down onto the floor. I was on the point of bursting into tears. All of a sudden, however, I felt myself carried away by rage. An angel, he said, an angel! "It's easy enough to be an angel when you have no stomach, but just try when you do! Just try! I want to see if you can keep your mouth from watering when two boiled partridges are steaming in front of you right under your nose. Inexperience loves to preach! I'm a man; Captain Wolf has invited me to eat, and I'm going!"

I darted outside. The snow had stopped. The clouds were breaking up; the sky gleamed between them like patches of tarnished copper. I kept my eyes on Captain Wolf's huge, deep footprints and stepped in each, following them. I wasn't walking, I was flying. I went as fast as I could, and owing to my haste fell two or three times, covering my beard with snow. Finally I arrived in front of our new convert's grotto. I bent down, gasping for breath. The fire was blazing; the aroma of roast partridge saturated the air. I could see Captain Wolf kneeling before the coals, stirring the contents of the pot.

"Hello!" I called from the entrance.

He turned. "Welcome to the monk!" he said with a laugh. "Come in, come in. Dinner is served. Loosen your belt!"

I entered, undid my knotted cord, and squatted next to the fire. O Lord God Almighty, what joy! Never in my life had I felt such gratitude toward God, such love, such a delightful need to pray and to address Him as Father! Truly, who is more a father: he who tosses his children out without giving them a mouthful of food or a garment to throw over their backs, or he who lights a fire for them and puts the pot on to boil and portions out food for them to eat?

We washed our hands with snow, spread a sheepskin over the ground in front of the hearth, and placed the pot in the middle; then, cutting ourselves huge slices of bread, we sat down cross-legged opposite each other--the repentant bandit chief and the so-called lion of God. We stretched forth our paws. Captain Wolf took one of the partridges, I the other, and for a considerable time you heard nothing in the cave but the working of our jaws and the gurgling of wooden wine mugs. What bliss! What Paradise! God forgive me, but this was how I pictured heaven, let Francis say what he would. Yes, the Sultan was right. . . .

The day began to grow dim. Opposite me I saw the large- boned face of our beloved bandit chief glowing bright red in the firelight. I had imbibed more than enough wine and at intervals--forgive me, Lord--I saw two horns on his forehead, two twisted, glossy horns butting the air. For a moment the thought crossed my mind, making me shudder, that perhaps the Tempter had dressed himself in Captain Wolfs body. Perhaps this man opposite me was the devil; perhaps he had lured me with a partridge, and here I was-- caught in his net! When we had done away with the two birds and had emptied the divine flask, we threw fresh logs on the fire. I was in seventh heaven, and I began to sing the anthem "Christ Is Risen" while Captain Wolf kept time for me by clapping his hands. And now and then he too cried out in a wild, booming voice which reverberated throughout the cave.

"My brother, my brother!" he shouted, embracing me in an outpouring of love. "I'm going to say something to you, but I don't want you to take it ill. I swear by the partridge I've just eaten that wine is better able to bring men together and make them into brothers than the Gospel is. Forgive me for thinking so. But look, just now I had a sip of wine and my eyes opened and I saw--saw that you were my brother."

This was followed by a profusion of hugs and kisses. "What I want, Brother Wolf, is for you to be able to see, without the aid of wine, that all men are your brothers. Because as soon as you're sober, what happens? Everyone becomes your enemy again, and the feeling of brotherhood vanishes."

"In that case, would that we were able to stay drunk our entire lives!" exclaimed Captain Wolf, sucking a final drop from the flask.

"Agreed, Brother Wolf-Lamb! Ah, if only I had the power, I would perform my own miracle: I would establish a Rule whereby each morning the brothers would drink a huge bottle of wine and would then dash out furiously to the villages and cities to preach. Just imagine how they would hug and kiss the people they met, how they would defy every danger, how they would sing and dance in praise of the Lord! Their ascent would be simple as can be, and thoroughly delightful into the bargain. From the warmth of emotions proceeding from wine they would advance to those proceeding from God, and from there straight to heavenly bliss!"