The Miracles of Santo Fico (12 page)

“May we touch it?”

Leo nodded and stepped aside. So the ritual began. The English tourists politely shuffled forward, patiently waiting their turn to reverently caress the smooth dark wood. Many were surprised when their turn arrived—the wood felt like it had been varnished. In fact, the old stump and broken branches bore many coats of shellac going back hundreds of years. This was the only way to protect the wood from the wind, the sun, the rain, and mostly the bugs.

As Leo worked his way through the crowd, answering their questions as he crossed the courtyard, he thought— amazing; so many years and yet it was like riding a bicycle.

But as well as things were rolling along, it was time to get on to the Mystery—there was no avoiding it. As he worked his way through the crowd, trying to get back into the church, an odd thing happened. Many of the locals, neighbors he had known all his life and who had gone out of their way to ignore him for six weeks, now nodded to him. A few even lightly patted him on the back. Considering the way they had shunned him as a leper, this was like a testimonial dinner.

From the garden door he called out in his most endearing accent, “Ladies and’a gentle’a-men, if you would’a step this’a way,” and he moved through the low doorway leading back into the cool shadows of the nave. It would be some minutes before they would abandon the Miracle, so Leo found a bench near the door and, sitting in the cool shadows, considered his next challenge. The Miracle had been simple, but the Mystery was difficult. The story wasn’t harder to tell. In fact, in many ways it was easier. It was certainly shorter. But Leo didn’t like the way the Mystery made him feel and he didn’t like the thoughts it made him think.

Topo was the first to reenter the church and he almost danced with excitement. Leo was reminded of when they were children and Topo would occasionally get so excited or scared that he would wet himself. It had been many years since he’d been around his friend and he hoped that that particular problem had been corrected. Topo seemed unaware of Leo’s presence as he placed himself next to a pier that was both strategic and yet out of the way. And from his shadowed bench, Leo observed something that he hadn’t expected. As Topo stared into the darkness at the back of the transept Leo recognized an expression that startled him, partly because he would never have guessed it of his old friend. But also because it put a face to what he felt in his own heart—greed. It passed like a blurred cloud across his friend’s face, but there it was. Then, as if his soul felt his sinful thoughts being observed, Topo turned and faced Leo and for an instant the little man looked ashamed. Then the others began filing back inside and the moment was gone—but Leo had seen the secret in Topo’s heart and they both knew it.

The sanctuary echoed with the sound of scuffling feet and reverential murmuring as the chapel filled and the strangers tried to sense where they were expected to stand and which direction they should look. Leo caught a glimpse of Father Elio returning from the garden with Marta. They were whispering about something that made them both smile. It lasted only a moment, however, before Marta discovered Leo watching her and then her smile vanished. But for Leo the damage was done—for an instant he’d seen her eyes shining and her white teeth flashing. For the first time since he’d been back, he saw her as she used to be and he wished she weren’t here.

When Leo stood, the room became hushed and even though he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the vaulted hall. After telling the stories of Cosimo’s miraculous healing and then of Saint Francis and the Miracle of the Santo Fico, Leo liked to keep the story of the Mystery brief. In fact, the story was almost superfluous—the power of the Mystery was in the viewing. So it didn’t take him long to tell about the rich patron whose libertine son was killed in some frivolous war or other. Then he told about a Beautiful Lady who mysteriously appeared, late one night, at the front door of a Great Artist. Sometimes the unnamed Great Artist lived in Siena, sometimes in Firenze, but on this occasion he lived in Roma. The Beautiful Lady spoke for the grieving father of the dead soldier and she offered the Great Artist a generous sum of money for a painting dedicated to the lost son. The Great Artist refused because, as he explained, he was scheduled to leave on a trip. The Beautiful Lady came to his door every night at the same late hour for a week, begging him to reconsider. And nightly he refused, until at last he left on his trip.

It was supposed to be a simple trip concerning a rich commission for some obscure and forgotten work. But throughout the day the artist’s horse continually turned down a wrong path, or strangers gave him inaccurate directions, or road signs were strangely missing. By evening he was completely lost and wandering along an inhospitable section of the Tuscan coast known as Santo Fico. To make matters worse, a violent storm blew in off the sea and the Great Artist was forced to take shelter in a small monastery atop a rocky promontory.

“Even from within the stone abbey the Great Artist could hear the wind howling, the thunder rumbling, and the rain beating’a down outside. But he did finally manage to drift off’a to sleep.”

Leo’s voice became a hushed, secretive whisper as he told them that, “It’a was in the middle of the night that the terrible storm suddenly stopped and it’a was the frightening silence that caused the poor man to wake up. But can’a you imagine the Great Artist’s amazement when he opened his eyes and found, standing before him, glowing like’a the sun, the same Beautiful Lady that had come to his door so many times. She was an angel. Not’a far from her was a handsome soldier, also with’a golden hair, and even though his’a body was covered with the wounds of a terrible battle, he too shone with a heavenly’a light. And standing between them, shining like a brass trumpet, was’a the blessed figure of Saint Francis.”

Leo told of how the Blessed Saint commanded the astounded Great Artist. “It was’a God’s will that he should create a fresco in memory of this Handsome Soldier—for the youth had been a bad’a boy, much like the young Saint Francis.” But just before a terrible battle, the young man had renounced his evil ways and asked Saint Francis to bless him. To honor this conversion, the Great Artist was to depict the miracle of the blessed fig tree.

“And so, the next day this Great Artist, inspired by his late-night vision, painted a miraculous picture. Then he just disappeared—gone without’a payment or even leaving his name. The painter of this’a masterpiece of Santo Fico remains forever . . . a mystery.” At this point, Leo nodded to Father Elio and the old priest plugged in the lamps attached to the backs of the piers. Audible gasps accompanied the dazzling lights, not from the sudden glare, but from the power of the fresco finally revealed.

Nobody ever seemed to notice that Leo’s story absolutely defied reason. It didn’t matter where he set the home of the Great Artist—Siena, Firenze, or Roma—the man could not possibly have gotten to Santo Fico in one day, especially considering all his mishaps. And what was even more glaringly impossible was the notion that anyone could create a fresco in a single day. And, why would humble Saint Francis want a depiction of himself and the fig tree to commemorate some repentant soldier’s conversion? The only fact that Leo got correct was that for at least four centuries the identity of the artist had remained unknown—“a mystery.”

There was so much that just didn’t make sense, but none of it mattered once Father Elio plugged in the lights. Any concerns about facts and fanciful tales were forgotten against the brilliance of the fresco.

A dozen English tourists and many more villagers stood in awed silence. It wasn’t as if these people had never seen a wet-plaster wall painting before. In the past week alone these foreigners had probably seen enough frescoes to last them some years. But this fresco was different. What they had seen were innumerable wall paintings that were chipped and decayed, rendered in colors that had faded and were then coated with centuries of grime. This wall was smooth and even, unmarred by time or man. Also, there’s a wondrous chemical reaction between pigment and lime-rich wet plaster that gives the colors a luminous richness not found in other forms of painting. These colors still possessed their amazing original hues. This fresco might have been created four months ago, not four centuries ago. Hidden in this obscure little corner, there was no harsh sunlight to fade the colors. And since the odd little cathedral had been essentially ignored by generations of villagers, the tincture was not muted by continual candle and incense smoke.

The second and most remarkable feature was the soul of the scene depicted.The focal point was, of course, a magnificent tree filled with leaves and an abundance of ripe figs. Reclining beneath its shaded boughs, his back resting comfortably against the smooth trunk, was a youthful and surprisingly pretty Saint Francis. One arm reached up, fingers poised only inches from the ripe fruits. This recumbent figure of the saint was an odd mix of sensual yet innocent paradoxes. He was, all in all, a middle-aged man, yet still strangely youthful and delicately boyish. Most startling was his childlike face. Although his hand reached up for the fruit, his eyes were almost shyly cast down, not quite meeting the gaze of the viewer—and they were filled with both gentleness and profound sadness. His small, well-formed mouth appeared on the verge of a smile: either amused understanding or resolute acceptance. Every part of his countenance embodied both joy and lamentation.

Leo stared into the face of that paradoxical boy/man, saint/God, and his heart raced. He had dreaded this moment since his return. It was that face that had kept him from entering the cathedral for the past six weeks. That face, and the fresco. Now it was in front of him, and again that wondrous face of Saint Francis took his breath away. He stared into those radiant eyes that refused to look at him. They were inviting, confirming, accusing. That damned enigmatic mouth that seemed to be smiling just at him, as if they two were sharing a secret. But Leo smiled back as if to say, “I know you. You’re no mystery to me.” Then Leo took a deep breath and forced his gaze away from the saintly face. He and Topo and Saint Francis shared a secret and there was nothing to do about it. So, he studied the rest of the picture that he knew so well.

Gathered around the fig tree were seven other figures: four characters to the left, three to the right. Of the four on the left, one was a beggared supplicant who knelt, reaching out to Saint Francis. Behind him, three disciples huddled together and conversed in an excited, expressive way about things that were undoubtedly profound. Leo guessed they were disciples because they wore the same robes of brown homespun as their master and their hair was cut in the same saintly tonsure.

To the right of the tree, three other figures were likewise occupied. One appeared to be a shepherd, for he held a crook in his hand and two sheep were at his feet. An aged man with snow-white hair and beard, an unpretentious face, and pale blue eyes looked upward in astonishment and adoration. The other two figures at his side appeared to be more poor supplicants awaiting an audience and probably, hopefully, miracles from Saint Francis. One leaned painfully on a crutch and the other, with rags covering his eyes, appeared to be blind. And in the cobalt sky above this assemblage was a tight array of three angels with golden robes and white wings. This was the apex of the triangle that surrounded and pointed to the blessed saint beneath the blessed tree. And beyond the angels, seven silver stars twinkled in the night-blue sky.

It’s hard to say how long the group of cultured English tourists and uncomplicated villagers stood together in whispered silence in front of the fresco.

Fortunately, while the English tourists stayed occupied with the Miracle and the Mystery, their beleaguered guide had also been successful. A hurried run down the winding street to the harbor had led him to Carlo Serafini, captain of the trawler
Emilia
. The old fisherman, who hadn’t been more than a mile out of the harbor in years, could still tell when something swam into his net. He charged the desperate guide an outrageous amount for two big buckets of diesel fuel and then charged him again for a ride back up the hill in his old truck. By the time the troop of English pilgrims finally left the coolness of the church, they’d almost forgotten what was awaiting them. Stepping out of the quiet shadows into the blazing afternoon sun, the blast of heat almost roared at them.

The tour group noticed that their bus driver was a bit greasier than usual and reeked of diesel fuel, but they didn’t care. It was enough that they were finally going to be on their way again. They might even be in Piombino in time for a cool bath, a change of clothes, and an evening stroll along the bay before dinner.

Leo stood at the door of the little bus bidding farewell to his new friends and accepting their thanks and good wishes. At last the tall Englishman with the large teeth and wild shock of salt-and-pepper hair stepped forward, placed one hand on Leo’s shoulder, and thanked him heartily. As the two men shook hands Leo could feel a wad of bills being pressed into his palm. How discreet. How tactful. How British. With sincere thanks he prudently slipped the money into his trouser pocket without counting it. Trust was a valued thing in such an arrangement.

Then, with the transaction complete, the tall fellow climbed on board and the door closed. With a cough of foul smoke, the bus roared to life, circled the piazza once, and headed down the bumpy street out of town. The few locals that had stayed to watch the spectacle to the final curtain waved farewell as the bus disappeared down the hill. At Punta Ala they would pick up a comparatively decent road that skirted the Golfo di Follonica all the way to Piombino.

After a moment the dust settled and even the rumble of the engine was gone. All that remained was a silence broken by the distant yapping of startled dogs protesting the bus passing their yards. Then even the dogs went back to sleep. People returned to their homes and humdrum returned to Santo Fico.

Leo was finally able to count the cash. Trust is a valued thing, but so is accurate bookkeeping. In a quick check he discovered an extra hundred thousand lire. A mistake? A tip? It didn’t matter—they were gone. Leo quickly glanced around. Marta was eyeing him from behind the hotel’s dark windows. Father Elio stood on the steps of the church waiting for him, and Topo was already scurrying across the piazza for his cut. He quickly shoved the extra bills in his pocket and hoped the surreptitious move wasn’t noticed. It wasn’t like he needed to hide anything, but why raise questions?