The Miracles of Santo Fico (13 page)

From inside the hotel, Marta watched the bills disappear into Leo’s pocket and sighed. “Typical.”

Why had he returned to Santo Fico? She’d reached a point in her life, after years of hard work and denial, where her disappointments had almost stopped hurting. She had carefully closed door after door to her heart, shutting out things, memories, and people who were reminders of her mistakes. She had embraced a kind of gray numbness that was preferable to red rage or black despair. And she certainly didn’t need this memento of her greatest blunder walking back into town.

She watched Topo run over to his old friend and banter about something—probably the money. Suddenly the small man’s face fell and then turned crimson. Marta knew this exchange by heart, but she hadn’t seen it played out in many years and she couldn’t help smiling. Leo was telling Topo that the cheap foreigners shortchanged them, or that Topo misunderstood the fee, or that he’d expected too much, or that Topo wanted more than his share—anything to torment the little mouse. And with each irritating claim Topo became more agitated, dancing around an unruffled Leo, who remained seemingly unaware of his friend’s dilemma. She laughed in spite of herself when Topo finally stomped his foot and she saw him mouth those familiar words, “Be fair!” That was the finale. Leo handed his friend a wad of bills and after a quick count, Topo’s whoop for joy echoed around the piazza. Marta even heard it from behind the glass in the still messy dining room.

Topo waltzed around him as Leo walked across the piazza to the steps of the church and when Father Elio received his share, he first slapped Leo on the back and followed that up with a warm embrace—which irritated Marta even more. All of these people being so nice to Leo was only encouraging him to stay longer.

The sound of Carmen’s laughter in the kitchen pulled Marta back to reality. To hell with Leo Pizzola. He wasn’t going to spoil her day. It had been a good afternoon. She’d made enough money to take the pressure off for some weeks, but more important, she’d had Carmen and Nina working by her side in the kitchen and they’d even laughed together a few times. Marta allowed herself to hum a small tune as she returned to collecting dessert plates and coffee cups. Why not hum? The lunch had been a victory. They made money. She and her daughters had laughed together like the old days. The afternoon had been quite a success.

Father Elio was having similar thoughts as he returned to the coolness of his sanctuary. What a wonderful afternoon, he thought. First the strangers arrive, which forced Marta to change her lunch menu. Then Leo brings the foreigners in to see the Miracle and the Mystery, which hasn’t happened in many years—even since before Leo ran away. And so many villagers came too. And finally, what a nice surprise it was that the English paid Leo more than they agreed on. But really, 500,000 lire was too much.

The old man made his way down the northern transept to the Mystery and switched off the lights. He considered returning the light bulbs to his bath and bedroom, but decided not yet. He wouldn’t place the blanket back over the fresco either. He would leave it uncovered and tonight he would turn the lights back on so everyone could see the Mystery again.

Yes, the money was a wonderful blessing, but it wasn’t the best part of the afternoon. The best was that his old church had been filled with people. Well . . . maybe not filled, but there had certainly been more people than he’d seen in a long time and many of them were villagers. True, they were a bit sheepish about missing church for so many months—or years. But had he gone too far? Had he become too swept up in the excitement of the moment? As the foreigners were departing, he’d announced to all of his neighbors that there would be a special mass this night. Why did he do that? What had possessed him to say that? The words just came flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. The amazing part was they all promised they would return . . . sort of. At any rate, many of them did . . . or rather some of them nodded and said they would try to attend. Now, wouldn’t that be wonderful—to actually have people attending mass again. This was the kind of afternoon that made him think that someday God might actually forgive him.

It was a rare occasion when Topo found himself in complete accord with both Marta and Father Elio, but that was the case today—what a wonderful afternoon. This was the first time since Leo’s return that he felt their old kinship. For six weeks, the talk in the village about “that young Pizzola’s return” had been generally unfavorable. Most people found him “standoffish,” or “arrogant,” or “dangerous,” or filled with “stuck-up American ways,” or he just “talked funny.” Topo knew differently. Leo was unhappy. He was homesick and talked incessantly about selling that run-down farm and going back to Chicago. But today was different. Today was like old times, only much better. In the old days Topo was on the perimeter watching Leo and Franco. Then he was an outsider who could only watch as they split the money. But today, he had performed Franco’s job . . . sort of. It didn’t matter if he didn’t do all that Franco used to do, he sure received more money than Franco ever did.

And his joy was increased by Leo’s joy. This was the first time he’d seen his old friend really happy since his return. Until today, he’d forgotten how infectious Leo’s smile could be. His sad eyes and long face tended to occasionally make him look like he was trapped somewhere between being dangerous and dull-witted. But when he smiled, Leo’s face exploded with such sincere innocent pleasure that any observer was forced to smile too. And that’s what had happened to Topo. After Father Elio had disappeared into the church with his share of the fee, Leo had turned to Topo wearing a grin so expansive that at first it actually frightened the little man. But Leo just hooked his arm inside Topo’s and suddenly pulled his small friend around in circles, dancing a clumsy yet spirited jig. Their whoops echoed around the piazza as they shook their respective wads of bills in each other’s face. Topo relished that moment of gaiety more than he could say.

From their trusty places by the fountain, Nonno and the gray dog watched Leo’s and Topo’s antics as if the revelers’ brains had gone sour.

But Topo’s joy at their renewed camaraderie really only lasted until Leo abruptly stopped dancing and announced enthusiastically, “I have a great idea!”

It was impossible for Topo to hide his fear. From earliest memory, Leo’s great ideas—in Topo’s considered opinion— were often ill conceived, usually impetuous, and almost always dangerous. He also knew that he was ultimately going to go along with it. He couldn’t resist that smile. He couldn’t resist the enthusiasm. He couldn’t resist the brotherhood. He was doomed.

His heart sank even deeper when Leo followed his announcement of an idea with a joyously loaded question.

“Does your truck have gas?”

Doomed!

EIGHT

T
he western horizon still clung to a warm orange glow when Marta finally finished her preparations for the next day and turned out the lights in her spotless kitchen. Things would be back to normal tomorrow—six or seven lunches not counting Uncle Elio, then beer in the afternoon and wine in the evening. As she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms she heard music; Nina was listening to the radio. An orchestra was playing a song that Marta knew once upon a time. It was a familiar melody attached to some pleasant memory—what was it? She couldn’t recall.

When she reached the hallway and turned the corner, she was hit with a wall of hot, stale air. The kitchen had been warm, but compared to the stifling upstairs the downstairs was balmy. Sleep was going to be difficult tonight. She remembered nights like this when she was a little girl. Her father, Young Giuseppe—sometimes with the help of Uncle Elio—would haul old mattresses up from the basement and spread them across the grass in the backyard. As soon as those musty mattresses were on the grass Marta and her sister, Rosa, would be leaping from one to the other, pretending they were islands of safety in some magical sea of boiling acid or craggy mountaintops surrounded by plunging chasms. In either case, one misstep meant certain death. Then their mother, Katrine, would scold them—but always Rosa more than Marta because she had fourteen more months of good sense than her younger sister. Katrine was convinced that those old mattresses were filled with every disease of every former guest that ever spent a night under the hotel’s roof dating back to whatever Caproni ancestor had made this villa his own—not to mention the legions of bugs that lived in the basement. Until all those filthy mattresses were covered with clean sheets, Katrine insisted that everyone stay off!

Those were wonderful nights. Marta’s father would build a fire and neighbors would come over and drink wine and sing. They would play bocce until it was too dark to see and then play some more. Then the whole family would lie out under the black sky waiting for shooting stars and talking far into the night.

After Young Giuseppe and Katrine died, and Rosa had married and moved to Cecina, when it was just herself and Franco and the girls, sometimes, on hot evenings, Marta would try to convince Franco that they should sleep in the backyard. But he only complained that dragging those filthy old mattresses out of the basement was too much work and they would only regret it when the morning sun shone in their eyes. Then later, as Marta and the girls lay upstairs tossing and sweating through the night, she would hear Franco’s motorcycle start and then disappear down the road. Apparently Franco had his own solution for beating the heat. But all that was a long time ago and Marta was too tired to think about Franco tonight.

There were no lights on upstairs as she poked her head in Nina’s bedroom and her eyes quickly adjusted to the glow of the radio on the other side of the room. Marta could make out the silhouette of her younger daughter sitting by the open window. This night wouldn’t offer much relief from the heat for some hours yet, but by the window there was at least a little breeze coming in off the sea. Nina sat there in her thin nightgown, diligently working at her tatting and she spoke without breaking the rhythm of the little needle.

“Are you going to bed?”

It always amazed Marta that no matter how silent she attempted to be it was never enough.

“Yes. Where’s your sister?”

“In her room I think.”

“Don’t stay up too late.”

Marta looked down the hall. The living room was dark and silent. It was strange that at this time of the evening, in the summer, Carmen wasn’t lying on the cool floor in front of the television. Across the hall, the door to Carmen’s room was shut and there was no light showing, so Marta quietly opened the door a crack and peeked in. The moon was rising in the east and in the pale blue light streaming through the open window Carmen was visible in her bed. The sheet was pulled up and her thick black hair spilled across the white pillow. Her breathing was deep and steady.

Marta silently closed the door and walked on down the hall. She considered watching some television herself, maybe something that might make her laugh. But she was too tired. Instead, she went into her bedroom and dropped back onto the bed without turning on the light and she was immediately sorry she had done that. It was going to be difficult getting back up again. The day had been so busy that she’d forgotten to open the upstairs windows in the afternoon and that’s why it was so stifling.

Forcing herself off the bed, she opened both sets of tall windows and welcomed a soft evening breeze. She stood for a moment allowing the cool air to wash over her. Maybe she should draw a bath. A bath would be wonderful. Maybe she should just shed all her clothes and sit in front of the dark window. Or maybe she should just run naked through the streets of Santo Fico until she reached the harbor. Then she could dive into the sea and swim and swim toward that dark crimson line in the west. She didn’t have the strength to laugh at her foolishness. Besides, she probably couldn’t even run all the way to the harbor anymore. The bath was a better idea.

She wondered how Carmen could possibly sleep under that sheet. Her room was every bit as hot as Marta’s was. She must have been tired. She’d worked hard all day and had been especially helpful in cleaning up this evening, but still, to sleep under that sheet . . .

Her musings were disturbed by an almost comically familiar sound from off in the distance. An old motor scooter was painfully making its way up the steep road. It sounded like Salvatore Puce, that unpleasant young man from Grosseto who brought the mail two times a week, but what would that greasy little
porco deficiente
be doing here now? She didn’t like the way that pimply little pervert looked at Carmen, but more than that she didn’t like the way Carmen insisted on flirting with him.

The sound of the scooter stopped not a hundred meters down the road.

It was a good thing Carmen was in her room so early . . . asleep . . . with the door closed . . . and with the sheet pulled up to her neck!

Marta leapt away from the window like a bolt of lightning and was across her room and down the hall like rolling thunder.

Throwing open Carmen’s door she discovered the bed empty. Since the hallway was clear Marta concluded that her idiot daughter was by now on the ledge outside her window, around the corner, and headed for the empty rose trellis.

Carrying her shoes in a small handbag, Carmen worked her way along the wobbly old tiles of the narrow overhang that skirted the back of the hotel as quickly as possible, but every time she stepped the tiles slipped or cracked beneath her bare feet. Her escape route was less substantial than she remembered. The roof gave an odd moaning sound and it occurred to her that if she fell she could be seriously bruised or even scratched, and her best skirt might be torn. She just needed to get over to the trellis by the kitchen door, and then she could climb down it like a ladder.

When she had imagined this evening’s escapade, it had not included danger, pain, or ruined clothes. The prospect of an evening with Solly Puce wasn’t even all that appealing, but Carmen had her reasons. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what Solly wanted—at least, she thought she did. She had seen enough kissing in the movies, and her girlfriends certainly talked about it enough. Carmen knew what Solly had in mind—and he would just have to learn to live with disappointment. He promised to take her to Grosseto and Grosseto had movie theaters and nightclubs and bars where people danced. It shouldn’t take her long to dump Solly for some rich man with a nice car.