The Miracles of Santo Fico (22 page)

They were all the way to the outskirts of Santo Fico before Leo noticed the shuffling sounds behind him. Nonno and that gray dog were following about twenty meters back. When Leo stopped and turned to them, they stopped—both looking casually preoccupied with something else. With renewed determination Leo turned and again walked down the road toward home, but he knew immediately that his personal nightmare and his damn dog were still following. So he stopped again. Nonno stopped also and busied himself by absently pushing pebbles off the road with his new cane, but the dog missed his cue and kept walking. When he discovered his error he went back and flopped down in the warm dust at Nonno’s feet. Leo stomped back up the hill to them.

“What?”

Nonno truly didn’t understand, and he shuffled innocently, looking for something to say.

“What is it?” stormed Leo.

“What is it? I don’t know— What is it, Nico?”

“Look. I’m sorry about the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I’m sorry!”

Nonno smiled and pushed Leo’s shoulder playfully. “Hey, that’s okay. You’re a good boy. You found me!”

“So, what is it? Why are you following me?”

Nonno thought hard for a moment before he said softly, “My house fell on me the other night . . .”

“I know. I found you.”

Leo could tell that there was more to be said, but for some reason the old man didn’t want to say it. It was as if there was something that Leo was supposed to know and Nonno was giving him a chance to say it first. But Leo had no idea what it was that Nonno wanted him to say and so the sun burned down on them as they stood in the road, each watching the other, waiting for the other to say this unspoken thing.

At last Nonno spoke. His eyes avoided Leo’s and his voice was soft and hesitant.

“So . . . I don’t have a place to stay anymore. Can I stay with you, Nico?”

He seemed ashamed and Leo felt worse about making the old man say those words out loud than he did about leaving him buried in the rubble. Buried in the destruction of his little room, Nonno had been a man trapped in a catastrophe, fighting for his life, but still a man. Even buried in the ruins, he had dignity. Now, he was a helpless old thing with a cane standing in the dust of the road asking for charity.

The words came out before Leo even had a chance to think, but they seemed an appropriate end for this day’s fiasco.

“Sure. Come on.”

That night the shepherd’s hut became more crowded than Leo could manage. It wasn’t Nonno’s fault. In fact, the old man turned out to be surprisingly good company. Once the fragments of the Mystery were safely stored under the bed and Nonno was finally allowed inside, Leo was amazed at how amiable the old man could be. Not only was Nonno surprisingly complimentary about every aspect of the ancient hovel and its bare surroundings, but he was especially grateful for the makeshift bed they created for him in the corner. The old man even offered to prepare their evening meal, and to Leo’s delight, his new roommate turned out to be a surprisingly inventive cook.

No, it wasn’t Nonno who strained the limits of hospitality. It was that skinny gray dog, who apparently assumed that Leo’s invitation to Nonno was a package deal. Although Nonno swore that he not only never fed the dog but, in fact, never even saw him eat anything, it was obvious that the dog was eating something. And whatever it was that the dog was eating, it didn’t agree with him. Nonno’s guess was grasshoppers, lizards, and scorpions. The bill of fare was irrelevant, because by about ten o’clock in the evening the dog’s gas had become so potent that Leo stumbled from the small hut gagging for air, his eyes watering. Nonno followed him outside, apologizing for the cur’s ill-mannered behavior. He was used to it, of course, but for strangers it was undoubtedly a bit thick.

What greeted them was a broad moonless sky carpeted with stars and a soft breeze off the sea. It was such a pleasant night that they built a small fire and brought some blankets outside. After a few minutes the dog sheepishly came out too and was forgiven, and then the three of them lay on the ground and stared up at the night sky. Conversation was sparse for a while, but eventually one comment led to another and before long they were discussing this and that. Nonno’s memory and observations startled Leo. Up until then Leo had thought of Nonno as an eccentric to be barely tolerated, then brushed aside as you crossed the piazza. But to Leo’s amazement, Nonno was not only interesting and pleasant company, but filled with stories and adventures. Only occasionally did he catch himself becoming disordered by memories of some vague and cryptic tragedy in some snowy mountains. For the most part he remained relatively lucid, although he did continue to call his host Nico.

It was probably almost midnight when Nonno told the strangest tale of all and yet the one that made the most sense. It was so simple, so logical. It was a variation on a story that Leo, and everyone else in the village, had heard many times before, but always in confused, disconnected fragments. Leo had never heard the old man put all the pieces together before. But now, listening to him tell the story by the campfire, Leo knew he had stumbled on to something exceptional. He had found his miracle.

FOURTEEN

F
or the first time in his life Elio Caproni was having trouble getting up in the morning. Early morning had always been his favorite time of day; he liked the freshness of the air, the cool emptiness of the piazza, and the blinding sparkle of the morning sun through the sanctuary’s eastern windows. And then, there was that first cup of coffee—one of life’s greatest pleasures.

But for the last few mornings all he wanted was to sleep. He wasn’t waking refreshed and he had to force himself to pull back the covers and stumble to the kitchen. At first he thought it was because of the fast, but he had fasted before. When he was a young man he had joined his predecessor, Father Luigi Scavio, in a fast that lasted two weeks. Maybe it was only ten days, but it was a long time and he could have gone longer, but Father Luigi was old and became too weak. Maybe that was it. Maybe now he was Father Luigi. Maybe now he was just too old to fast. These were not good thoughts to be waking up with and he tried to dismiss them. A cup of coffee and he would be fine.

And sure enough, within the hour (and after another cup of coffee) Father Elio was feeling better. What he needed was a bit of work to take his mind off things. So he spent this morning as he had the last two mornings, hauling the debris of the collapsed ceiling out the great front doors and piling it at the bottom of the steps. He was pleased to find that many of the roof tiles weren’t damaged beyond salvaging. In a few hours he was able to carry most of the remaining debris out and all that remained were some beams that he couldn’t move. He would have to recruit help with them, but there was still a great deal of sweeping. He preferred doing this work in the cool of the morning because the days were so hot—even inside the cathedral, now that it had the gaping hole in the roof. He also confessed to himself that by working outside he didn’t have to look at the way his beautiful little cathedral had suffered.

He was sweeping the front steps when he saw Maria Gamboni walking slowly across the piazza. This was odd because it wasn’t one of Maria’s usual confessional days and Father Elio hoped that Maria wasn’t caught in the grip of some guilt attack and in need of an emergency confession. He didn’t want to go back inside. Now that the sun was shifting he wanted to go around to the north side and see if there was enough shade to work on the crumbled garden wall. Maybe she was just passing by on her way to somewhere else. But Maria walked slowly up to him and sat right down on the stone steps. So Father Elio put down his broom and sat next to her. Maria Gamboni had been a passionate fire of determined guilt for nearly thirty years and Father Elio wasn’t prepared for this sad old woman who sat quietly next to him in the shade of the bell tower.

“What do I have to do, Father?”

“To do?” Father Elio repeated blankly.

“Why won’t God honor my repentance?”

The question was so simple and profound Elio couldn’t speak.

“I’ve prayed for forgiveness every day for thirty years. I’ve confessed my sins thousands of times. I’ve done my penance until my voice is hoarse and my knees are bleeding. You know this is true.”

He nodded. He did know this was true.

“So why won’t God forgive me? What do I have to do? If my Rico isn’t coming home, why can’t I know this? If he is dead, why can’t I know this? What does a person do when the only thing they love in the world refuses to love them back? What do I have to do to get God to listen to me, to forgive me?”

Father Elio sat for so long considering Maria Gamboni’s questions, that if they were in the confessional, she would have thought him asleep again. But he wasn’t asleep. He was astounded that she could speak his own thoughts and fears so eloquently. She could see his watery blue eyes were lost in her sad contemplation, but he also seemed lost for an answer.

Finally Maria rescued the awkward moment by pointing a bony finger across the piazza and exclaiming incredulously, “Well, would you look at that? What on earth are they up to?”

The answer to this mundane question was no easier than her previous spiritual one. They watched in silence as Leo Pizzola entered the piazza from the old north coast road, followed by Nonno and then the gray dog. Leo seemed to be in a great hurry and tried to pull Nonno along, but the old man’s new aristocratic limp refused to be rushed. When Leo saw Father Elio and Maria Gamboni watching from the church steps, he smiled and waved uncomfortably. Nonno wanted to tip his cap politely, but Leo impatiently guided the old man across the piazza toward the south road leading down the hill and out the other side of town.

When they were out of sight Maria made a clucking sound with her tongue and said only, “Well, that’s quite a pair.”

“Maria, about what you asked . . . I don’t know what to tell you.”

The old lady stood up and dusted off her black dress. “I know. It’s okay. What would you know about God turning His back on someone? You’re a priest. God loves you.”

She walked down the steps and called over her shoulder, “See you on Thursday.”

Father Elio sat staring at the broom in his hands and thinking about Maria Gamboni’s words. What would he know about God turning his back on someone? He’s a priest. God loves him.

Topo wasn’t sure what upset him the most: that Leo believed Nonno’s peculiar story or that he’d brought that smelly dog into his shop. That dog was looking for a place to pee. But when Topo was finally able to get his mind off the old dog sniffing around his boxes, crates, and pant leg long enough to listen to Nonno’s story, he had to admit he was surprised by what he heard. For as long as he could remember, he’d heard stories about the mysterious history of Santo Fico, but the details of this particular incident Nonno told were new and intriguing . . .

It was in the winter of 1944, probably late January or early February, when Nonno had stumbled into Santo Fico from somewhere in the north. He was so gaunt and haggard that most of the villagers thought he wouldn’t survive. In and out of a fever for a week, he raved about terrible things and most of what he said made little sense, but they pieced together that something terrible had happened to him with the Germans. They surmised that he’d been part of a band of anti-Fascists who were pursued by Nazis, driven into the Dolomite Mountains, and he was the lone survivor. How he managed to wander across half of Italy in the dead of winter was to remain forever a mystery.

To make matters worse, a month later a detachment of Germans was assigned to Santo Fico. They simply drove their trucks up the southern road one day, parked in the piazza, and moved into the hotel. They were part of a greater German force that had been sent to Italy to “encourage” the heartsick forces of Il Duce. This small squad had been assigned to Santo Fico because of its quiet harbor and commanding view of the sea. Fortunately, the occupation didn’t last long. The villagers did not like Santo Fico being occupied by the arrogant German soldiers who stayed wherever they chose, took whatever they wanted, and flirted with whomever they pleased. So the villagers fought back—in their own unique way.

According to Nonno, one night when naval and aerial bombardments were occurring all around the region, some of the men sneaked out and shut off all of the water. In the morning it was announced to the Germans that a stray bomb had destroyed the village well and every inhabitant of Santo Fico would undoubtedly die of thirst before it could be repaired. Of course, the villagers had stored away enough water to last them a month. They begged the Germans for help. In only a few days the thirsty Germans were gone and were never seen in Santo Fico again. The water was restored within twenty-four hours—all except the fountain.

Now according to Nonno, the fountain had its own ancient source, a source other than the main well and the water lines that supplied the village. The fountain dated back many centuries and its source was probably established when the cathedral was built—maybe even earlier. In 1944 there was only one very old man who knew where the pipes to the fountain originated and the night they shut down the water, it had been Nonno’s job to accompany that old man and help him turn off the water to the fountain—which he did.

Unfortunately for the village, the old man who knew where the pipes to the fountain originated was very old indeed. Two days after their sabotage raid, he died. In the subsequent months, Nonno was of little help. He was not only a stranger to the region, but only visited the forgotten water pipe once and that was on a moonless night. But, also, in those days his mind was even cloudier than now. So all memories of the old pipe remained vague and the ancient fountain remained dry—Santo Fico’s only casualty of World War II.

At the time, there were certainly larger concerns than the fountain. It was wartime and things were hard. Then, as time passed, the cool water that had once flowed in the middle of the piazza became a topic for idle chat, then a fading memory, and eventually the notion of water in the fountain became only a fable that children joked about.