The Miracles of Santo Fico (21 page)

Leo understood. The old fool was going to starve himself to death. No wonder Marta had attacked him.

“I told you I would bring it back.”

“He doesn’t want it back! He can’t stand the thought that anyone from Santo Fico would steal the Mystery. He prefers to believe that God took it.”

“But when he sees that a person took it—”

“He knows a person took it, damnit! He’s not an idiot! Hell, in his heart he probably knows that it was you who took it! Don’t you see? Somebody from the village taking the Mystery is just another proof that his life has been a failure. In his mind, you’re just doing God’s will to punish him. Don’t bring it back! I mean it!” She shoved her finger into his chest like a dagger and her voice became an ominous whisper. “If you bring it back, I
will
call the police.”

Leo looked around for something to kick. “What the hell do you want me to do?”

“I want you to undo what you did. Make Uncle Elio know that God forgives him . . . and that He still loves him.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“Make a miracle,” she said simply.

Even Marta was struck by the innocent sincerity of her demand. She might just as easily have requested that he close the door, or stir the soup, or tie his shoe. But as soon as she said it, she knew that a miracle was exactly what she wanted, and now expected—or else.

Leo swallowed hard. He had heard her correctly and she meant it. He could see that she meant it. She expected him to make a miracle.

“How?”

“I don’t know. You’re the clever one.”

She abruptly turned and started back across the meadow, but she stopped. She stood for a moment with her back to him before slowly returning to face him. This time her voice was soft and sincere and she chose her words carefully.

“Leo, there’s a lot . . . a lot of grief between us . . . you and me. Some of it . . . I don’t know, maybe I . . . I don’t know. But I tell you this from my heart— If Uncle Elio dies because of this, if he dies thinking that he’s been deserted by God, I’ll . . . I’ll do something.”

She pointed her finger at him again and Leo understood that he had just received a threat more dangerous than anything he’d ever faced before. She would do something and it would be terrible.

“You make a miracle.”

Then she turned again and headed back up the trail. Leo called after her.

“What should I do with the painting?”

Marta shrugged and called over her shoulder, “Throw it in the sea for all I care. I never want to see it again.” And she was gone.

The first thing Leo did was open the door and all the shutters of the hut. There was no need to hide in the sweltering dark anymore. As far as Marta was concerned the fresco belonged to him. “Throw it in the sea for all I care,” was what she said. The only witness to his crime never wanted to see it again. The treasure was once more his and this time with a crumb of backhanded approval. The sea breeze quickly filled and refreshed the room.

Leo went to the cot and pulled back the sheet, studied the panel for a moment, and for the first time in his life, he no longer cared what the saintly face was thinking. It didn’t matter anymore. He placed the panel on the table in full view for anyone who happened by and then he collapsed on the cot. No one would happen by. He’d already had his visitor. And as he lay on the cot, enjoying the moments before sleep, he thought of Marta and her miracle. He knew it was going to be a challenge, but it was one he would gladly face. One miracle equaled one ticket out of Santo Fico . . . and wealth. He had no idea what he would do, but how hard could a miracle be, anyway?

Within minutes Leo was sound asleep and dreaming of Chicago, and baseball, and the cool green grass of Wrigley Field.

THIRTEEN

B
y 1:30 of the next afternoon, Leo felt as if he had already performed a major miracle and any subsequent miracles would be child’s play. He spent the morning keeping Topo from either killing himself or going to the police and confessing to every unsolved crime in Toscana.

As Leo explained to his guilt-ridden accomplice, it was God who had destroyed the wall, not them. “After all,” Leo argued, “if we hadn’t saved the painting, it would have been crushed; gone forever.” So it was only logical: If God was going to destroy the painting, then God must have no more need for it. And if that was the case, shouldn’t people be allowed to take advantage of what God no longer wanted? Wasn’t Topo’s own home and shop a testament to that sort of scavenger logic? On the other hand, spiritually speaking, perhaps God had a greater purpose in mind. Perhaps He wanted the painting to join the rest of the world so people everywhere could appreciate it. And, if either of these possibilities were true, could it not also be possible that God had intended for Leo and Topo to arrive at the church exactly when they did, precisely so they could rescue the painting? Hadn’t they both prayed fervently for a long time that they should be allowed to escape Santo Fico? Who was to say that this was not the answer to their prayers? Did Topo really want to stand in the way of God’s divine will?

By the time Leo was done with him, Topo was not only convinced of the soundness of both Leo’s logic and theology, but was thinking that the town should be told of their good deed. They might receive a reward, or at least a testimonial, but Leo quickly persuaded him that this was perhaps going a bit too far. Then, once he felt that Topo was reasonably comfortable with the situation, it was time to move on to the more difficult task. He told Topo about his confrontation with Marta.

If Leo regarded Marta Caproni Fortino’s strength of will with respect, Topo was absolutely cowed by it. He always had been. It wasn’t that Marta had ever done anything to Topo, other than to occasionally give him a push or a solid punch in the arm when they were children. No, he was terrified of her potential—perhaps because she was a woman; perhaps because she was so remarkably beautiful; perhaps because she possessed those unknown dangers that he found so frightening and exciting.

When Leo told Topo that Marta had seen them leaving the church with the Mystery, and of Father Elio’s reaction to the disappearance, and that Marta had threatened them with prison, he wasn’t sure if his friend was going to cry or faint. Leo saw reflected in Topo’s panicked eyes all the horrors he imagined awaiting him behind the cruel iron bars of prison. But by the afternoon, Leo began to make real progress. A major hurdle was Topo accepting that they weren’t going to be thrown into a Siena prison for the remainder of their natural lives and that they were actually going to keep the painting, sell it, and make a fortune. The seeds Leo had planted in the morning hours establishing God’s will on this subject finally blossomed in the afternoon and Topo even began to show small signs of enthusiasm about creating the proper miracle that would restore Father Elio’s faith.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon at Topo’s kitchen table, debating the merits of an assortment of possible divine events. They tried to keep their discussion on a respectfully high spiritual plane, confining any potential miracles to something with an established scriptural foundation, but their familiarity with biblical events was fairly random and what they could recall was sketchy at best. Consequently, they both kept unintentionally reverting to their most familiar exposures to things supernatural. As a result, Topo’s miracles were too often reminiscent of science fiction movies of the 1950s, whereas Leo’s miracles almost leapt off the pages of American tabloid newspapers—and unfortunately a couple of bottles of wine didn’t help their inspiration or their temperament. By late afternoon a frightened and discouraged Topo suggested that it was time for Leo to go home.

The sun was passing from afternoon into evening when Leo stomped up the street leading away from Topo’s shop. Who would have thought creating a miracle could be so difficult? At this point he wasn’t sure who he was angriest with—Marta for her unreasonable demand that he produce a miracle, or Father Elio for his pointless hunger strike, or Topo for not asking him to stay for dinner. His frustrated march carried him halfway across the piazza before he noticed that he’d walked into the middle of a gauntlet.

Just ahead, Father Elio was on the steps of the church talking with Marta. The front doors of the church were open and it was evident that the old man had been hauling out the debris of the fractured roof. Apparently he wanted to continue his efforts, but no matter where the old priest turned, Marta stayed in front of him, holding out a basket that had to be filled with food and pleading for whatever was inside. Finally the old priest took Marta by the arm and gently turned her back toward the hotel. That’s when they both saw Leo. Marta glared at him, but Father Elio smiled and waved as they descended the steps.

To make matters worse, Leo noticed Nonno sitting on the edge of the fountain. A wide bandage wrapped his forehead, there was an ugly bruise below one eye, and scratches, and he leaned on the newly borrowed cane as if he always had. The gray dog was asleep at his feet. Leo glanced at the old man out of the corner of his eye. Nonno was watching him and Leo could tell that the slightest provocation would bring him over. Any conversation with Nonno in the presence of Marta and Father Elio could prove awkward, and so he did what he could to ignore the old man.

Leo furrowed his brow as if he were the prisoner of deep thoughts and he walked with purposeful determination, his eyes locked on the cobblestones directly in front of his feet. He was sure that if he pretended he hadn’t noticed them, he could make it across the piazza unaccosted. But also unfortunately for him, it occurred to Father Elio that a conversation with Leo might be the very thing to get Marta to stop pestering him. He loved his niece and he understood her concern, but the excellent smells emanating from that basket were beginning to test the resolve of his fast.

“Good evening, Leo.” The old man steered himself and Marta directly into Leo’s path.

“Ahh! Hello . . .” Leo did his best impression of someone jolted out of some heavy deliberation. Marta simply sighed, shook her head, and made Leo feel exceptionally transparent.

At least Father Elio had accomplished his goal. Marta moved away from him and toward the hotel, but now he felt that some small talk was probably in order, so he asked Leo, “How did your place do? I mean, with the earthquake the other night.”

“Oh, fine. Good . . . I was just, um . . . on my way . . .” Leo pointed down the north coast road and backed himself toward his destination. Marta not only didn’t say a word, but refused to even look in his direction, which for some reason made Leo even more nervous. He was just about to turn and go when he was stopped by a familiar voice.

“Hey there, Nico.”

Nonno had left his perch on the fountain and was now, almost magically, standing at Leo’s shoulder. He gave Leo a little wave. “How you doin’, Nico? Where’d you go the other night?”

Leo wanted to grab him and shake him until the few teeth he had left rattled—anything that would make him stop. Instead, he just gave a little nod and a feeble shrug.

“My house fell on me. Remember? You found me. Where’d you go? You promised you’d stay with me.”

The other night Father Elio had been so busy he hadn’t noticed that Leo didn’t return, but Marta knew where he was and Leo could feel her gaze turn to him. This was not good.

“I went to get some lumber so we could get you out.” “You’re a good boy, Nico. I thought you ran out on me. Maybe because of the mountains. But I didn’t desert you. You know that! Even in the snow . . . when . . .”

The old man could tell he was getting jumbled. He had been told that he did that sometimes. So he just gave Leo a wink and a pat on the shoulder. “My house fell on me, but you found me. Right?”

Leo shrugged again and tried to lose the image of Nonno’s dusty face buried in the rubble with the dirt and blood and tears mingling with his trusting smile. He had deserted him, but he hadn’t thought of it in those terms until now. Of course, Marta hadn’t known about Nonno at all—until now, and the thought that Leo had abandoned that old man, buried in the rubble of his house, so he could steal the Mystery from the church, left her feeling a little sick. She wanted to hit him again, or scream at him some more, but she contented herself with just watching him fidget.

Father Elio was tired, so he bid them all good evening, explaining that it was time for him to go back to the church and pray. Marta nodded and as her uncle walked back toward the church she took a moment to catch Leo’s eye. It was just a glance, but in her look Leo saw that there was something more than just anger. It was disgust. She stepped close to him and her voice was barely a whisper and as indifferent as a breeze.

“Three days. If you haven’t done something to restore my uncle’s faith in three days, I’m calling the police. Three days. Then, I’ll do anything I have to do to make sure you’re punished for what you’ve done. Three days.”

Without another look she strode across the piazza and disappeared into the hotel at about the same moment Father Elio vanished into the church. Leo was left alone in the center of the piazza with Nonno and the gray dog. He didn’t want to look at Nonno because he knew if he did, the old man was going to talk to him and he especially didn’t want to talk to him right now. He was too angry with the old fool for mentioning the other night in front of Marta, and he was also angry with Marta for her new ultimatum, and he was angry with himself for not yet having contrived a miracle that he could have tossed in her face. So, without acknowledging Nonno in any way, Leo walked across the piazza and down the street to the north coast road.

He was sorry about deserting the old man the other night, of course, and he was glad that he was all right, but Nonno was not his problem. All he had wanted to do was walk across the piazza! Why couldn’t Nonno just shut up? Now, Marta was ready to serve him his head on a platter, roasted with sage and sweet basil, if he didn’t make a miracle in three days.
Three days!
For the first time since he’d “rescued” the fresco, he fancied he heard the clang of prison doors in that phrase—“Three days!” He needed to think. He needed a miracle that couldn’t be denied even by the biggest skeptic. He needed an event to happen in front of witnesses. He needed something unexpected, something impossible. He needed . . . He needed . . . He needed to know why the hell Nonno was following him down the north coast road!