The Miracles of Santo Fico Read online

  In a matter of seconds, the bus’s brakes screeched to a halt in front of a handsome old villa and the tour was complete. A weathered sign above the gate leading into the villa’s courtyard announced in fancy letters of faded reds, yellows, and greens that they had arrived at the Albergo di Santo Fico. With a gasp of gratitude the engine died and, except for a distant dog that continued to bark its personal protest, the village was silent again. Shiny tourist faces peered through the glass as if they had unexpectedly landed on the back side of the moon. Although they had no idea where they were, it was a safe bet that this place was not listed in any of their glossy, tri-folded, four-color brochures.

  Back on the steps of the church, the novelty of the bus passed quickly for Maria Gamboni. She was impatient to get to her atonement.

  “I think fifty today, Father. Don’t you think so? Don’t you think maybe fifty?”

  Father Elio felt her insistent tug at his sleeve, but he was preoccupied with the bus. What was this bus doing here? Of course, it must be lost, but how strange, after so many years to have a tour bus become lost again. And with Leo Pizzola returning to Santo Fico just six weeks ago—a suspicious coincidence, he thought. He sighed as he also thought of all the finger waggings and forecasts of misfortune he could expect before this day was over—all because of Leo Pizzola’s return.

  Since his return, rumors and speculations about what Leo Pizzola would do next ignited faster than grass fires. Gossip of scandal and doom is always engaging and the villagers enjoyed discussing these rumors as if they were omens. Even in the best of times insignificant incidents were good for at least a casual debate among the 437 inhabitants. And why not? For some time Santo Fico had only grudgingly conceded the passing decades, and the second half of the twentieth century visited only occasionally—and then, like this tour bus, usually by mistake. The inhabitants of Santo Fico no longer concerned themselves with unimportant things like the future. They had better things to do—like spending a cool evening at a verandah table with a friend, a glass of wine, and domino tiles, debating winds and cloud formations—or like sitting at their open windows studying how distant lightning storms changed the blues of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  Father Elio finally had to respond to the insistent yanks on his sleeve and so he patted Maria’s bony hand and said, “No, fifty is too many. It’s too hot. Ten is plenty.”

  “Ten? Ten would be an insult to God!”

  “All right, twenty. But no more than twenty.”

  As he guided Maria back into the church where she could spend the next hour savoring every chastising moment of her penance, Father Elio stole one more glance across the piazza at the curiosity parked in front of his niece’s hotel. He liked the notion of these tourists staying for lunch. It meant that Marta would dress up her menu and that prospect made his mouth water.

  At that moment a wiry little figure came hurrying up the street, following the route of the bus. Father Elio couldn’t help noting the appropriateness of Guido Pasolini’s lifelong nickname. It was more than just Topo’s short stature or slight build. It was also his gait; the way he moved with a comical jerking motion when he was excited. It couldn’t quite be called running, but might best be described as scurrying—like an excited little mouse.

  Guido Pasolini didn’t notice Father Elio watching him from across the piazza. By the time the excited little Topo reached the hotel, he was dangerously out of breath. He’d run for almost a quarter of a kilometer up the hill and now his thin legs could barely hold him. But Guido Pasolini was not the type of fellow who failed to recognize opportunity when it presented itself and from the first moment he’d heard that diesel engine approaching, he was on the alert. When it rumbled past the open door of the Pasolini Fix-It Shop, it had taken him only seconds to abandon Signora Morello’s broken record player, grab his hat, and race out the door in full pursuit. Now, staggering up to the blue and white bus, gasping for breath, he tried his best to look uninterested.

  Strolling nonchalantly by the bus, Guido knew that they would have to be getting out soon and opportunities pass quickly. So he hurried across the verandah and disappeared through the front doors of the Albergo di Santo Fico.

  TWO

  The silence of the empty lobby made Guido nervous and he felt the anxious urge to urinate. It was more than just his reasonable fear of the proprietress, Marta Caproni Fortino. It was also the hotel itself. The high ceilings and colorful tile floors were much more in keeping with a grand estate or important museum, and the stately rooms always made him feel slightly out of place.

  Once upon a time the Albergo di Santo Fico had been a magnificent villa that, along with the church, had dominated the town for centuries. The villa had been in the Caproni family forever—that is to say, there was no memory of it ever having belonged to anyone else. According to legend, the villa had been built as a summer retreat for Cosimo de Medici, but the Grand Duke thought it was haunted by the ghost of his dead wife, Eleonora, and he refused to ever live there. When and how it actually came to the Caproni family is a detail lost in time and murky fables.

  In any case, recent memory is reliable only back to about 1873 when Old Giuseppe Caproni (Father Elio Caproni’s father and Marta Caproni Fortino’s grandfather) decided to turn his family’s deteriorating villa into one of the finest hotels on the Toscana coast. It was certainly the most isolated, but the Albergo di Santo Fico occupied a prime spot on the piazza, directly in front of the juncture of two important roads. The smaller road bends around the hotel to a narrow cobblestone street that winds its way down to the sea. A wall of whitewashed shops and houses with terra-cotta roofs and colorful shutters lines one side of the street—and on the other side, a low stone barrier keeps the unwary or tipsy from plunging off the cliff-face road to the harbor below.

  But it’s that other road just outside the hotel’s tall front doors—that road which the bus recently scaled amid a chorus of whispered prayers and curses—that has always been the more significant road. Centuries earlier it had been cut by hand through granite sea cliffs, and this is the road that leads inland away from Santo Fico, toward the Ombrone River and then farther on to Grosseto and beyond that, to the world.

  Back then Old Giuseppe Caproni saw Santo Fico as a village with a future. He predicted that someday processions of holy pilgrims from all over Italy would trek to Santo Fico just to visit the Miracle and the Mystery of their blessed little church. Then his Albergo di Santo Fico would be a gold mine—as soon as the government widened that damn cliff road. But the old east road that was to bring the world to his hotel’s doorstep was never improved and the main highway never came closer to Santo Fico than seventeen kilometers. Many said that the tragedy of Santo Fico was how little that road has changed in four hundred years. But that was all too long ago for most memories. The village eventually just abandoned her dreams, resolved that opportunity had simply moved on, and settled into a comfortable obscurity.

  Opportunity, however, can occasionally pull into even the most insignificant village and on this particular morning Guido Pasolini had it in mind that it was parked just outside—and the clock was ticking. He hurried through the lobby and directly into the restaurant. He wasn’t surprised to discover the large room empty, but better safe than sorry—so he called loudly enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be offensive.

  “Marta . . .”

  Silence.

  He peeked through the open doors to the verandah and, sure enough, inside the bus the tourists were gathering their belongings to exit. The grumbling roar of its diesel engine had already announced the bus’s arrival to most of the village and Guido knew that shortly the square would be filling up with his curious neighbors. Guido also recognized the danger of venturing beyond the restaurant and into the kitchen without a direct invitation, but what choice did he have? If he was going to be the first to tell Marta of their arrival, he would have to hurry. It could be worth a reward— maybe lunch. The little man carefully stepped through the dining room
’s swinging doors and entered the forbidden kitchen.

  On a large stove, two steaming pots of water were threatening to come to a boil and the room smelled of fresh garlic and basil and onions and oregano. The door to the back garden was open, as were all the windows. The floor was still damp from a mopping, making the burnt umber tile an even deeper red.

  “Woo-Whoo . . . Anybody here,” he pretended to call cheerily, but really it was just a loud whisper. The room was empty.

  “Marta . . . Hel-llooo . . .”

  Silence.

  He was wise to be cautious. Marta Caproni Fortino had firm rules about outsiders in her kitchen and childhood friends were no exception.

  “Marta . . . ?” A little louder this time.

  “Topo! What are you doing back here?”

  The voice came sharply from behind and above and it spun Guido around on his heels. Standing at the top of stairs that led from the kitchen to the family’s upstairs rooms, a young woman looked down on him with mild consternation as she carelessly wound her thick black hair into a yellow scarf.

  Whenever Guido saw Carmen Fortino, the older of Marta’s two daughters, he always found it hard to breathe for a moment. It wasn’t just because of her luxurious black hair and smooth olive skin or her dark eyes that seemed to bore through him or her red lips that never required paint. It wasn’t just because of the way her full mouth always seemed about to either smile or sneer at him—he didn’t care which. It wasn’t just the haughty manner with which she carried her body or the way certain of her soft curves pushed and strained against her clothing. All of these things certainly caused his mouth to go dry and his stomach to tense, but there was also something almost mystical in her allure. Her mother, Marta, affected him in the same way and had since they were children. And really, it wasn’t just Marta and Carmen. It was all beautiful women. Beautiful women made Guido feel both insignificant and thrilled to be alive.

  Carmen knew the effect she had on the funny little Topo and she enjoyed it. It was essentially the same effect she had on most men, but with Guido it was a bit more obvious and his level of adoration was sort of endearing. She’d begun to notice her power when she was only fifteen. It had something to do with the way certain boys who had always been so bold before, even cruel, all at once began to stutter. Suddenly they were unable to hold her gaze, but the instant she turned away she could actually feel the heat of their eyes silently following her. After some months of initial confusion and anxiety, Carmen realized that she was developing siren powers. She’d spent the last two years practicing her skills and, sometimes, like right now with Topo, she felt as if her abilities already surpassed her mother’s.

  Carmen slowly descended the steps with her arms raised, now self-consciously working her black hair into the yellow scarf. She knew she should hurry, but she couldn’t resist the helpless look on Guido’s upturned face and she allowed her body to bounce slightly as she dropped methodically from step to step. Her voice was softly reprimanding.

  “You know my mother doesn’t allow anyone back here.” “I know. I know that . . . Sorry. I was looking for her . . . Your mother. It’s important. Where is she?”

  To Guido, Carmen seemed to descend the stairs in slow motion, and the way she looked directly in his eyes with that slight smile of chastisement—slow hands weaving yellow scarf through black hair—it was all like a scene from a movie. Sunlight gleamed through the eastern windows and reflected off the thin film of water on the newly mopped tile floor. The light bounced off the sheen and enveloped Carmen in a golden haze and Guido couldn’t help thinking, this is pure Zeffirelli . . .

  Suddenly, an irritated question came from behind him and jolted Topo out of his reverie like a swat on the back of the head.

  “Topo! What are you doing in my kitchen? Carmen, why aren’t you in the dining room?”

  Carmen’s expression chilled faster than November frost. In an instant the yellow scarf was tied and she was down the stairs. Guido turned to greet the glowering eyes of Marta Caproni Fortino coming in from the garden carrying a basket of vegetables. Her tall figure was framed in the doorway and her skin glistened with sweat. The tousled waves of her thick black hair refused to be completely captured by her red scarf. Like Carmen, Marta had the brooding look of most Caproni women—dark eyes and high cheekbones, determined jaw and narrow nose and that smooth olive skin. But Marta was taller than her two daughters and possessed a powerfully sensual athlete’s body that they did not. Right now, with the morning sunlight flaring white behind her, Guido couldn’t help thinking that here was no colorful Zeffirelli nymph. Marta was earthy, with stifled passions that were best shot in black and white—much more De Sica or Rossellini.

  “We need table settings. Now.”

  “I’m going,” was Carmen’s indifferent response as she made a pointed effort to slow her exit.

  Guido had grown up an only son surrounded by five sisters, so he long ago recognized the edgy tension of unspoken antagonism that often roils between a mother and her daughter. He’d observed with his mother and sisters that these feelings of tension were usually because the two women were so much alike. And he also knew that if he were to helpfully point this out to these two women, they would both be so insulted at being compared to the other that they would immediately join forces to burn him down where he stood—so he said nothing. But in his mind Carmen and Marta were like two different bends in the same river. The difference was Carmen found her source higher up, near the headwaters, where the ravines are narrow and the river is young and anxious. A young river is fresh and fast, crashing and cascading impatiently through rocky chasms as if it can’t wait to get to the next turn its course might take. That young river doesn’t care where it’s going. It just knows that it has to get away from where it’s been and all twists and turns are filled with promise. Marta was the same river only wide and deep. Time had run a longer course with Marta and she had experienced enough unexpected turns and twists to stop counting on the promise of the next bend in the river. The river just was. Her waters appeared smooth and still, but for those who carefully studied the surface there were eddies and swirls that announced: This water is deep and unsafe. There were dangers hidden beneath this still surface—sharp snags and jagged crags and undercurrents best not explored. Only a fool would blindly dive headfirst into these dark waters.

  “Is your sister back from the bakery with the bread?” “No,” was the curt reply and Carmen disappeared into the dining room.

  As Marta moved past him and set the basket on the counter, Guido caught the fragrance of her bath soap. It smelled like lavender and he took in a deep breath as his imagination smiled. He was reminded that for all of Carmen’s intoxicating power, she was still just a facsimile of the original. Carmen was enchanting, but still so young and self-indulgent. Her mother was a woman. Everything about Marta was natural and genuine—her beauty, her grace, her sensuality, her passion, her temper, her bitterness. She never toyed with him or made him feel small and homely. Of course, she never made him feel particularly welcome either, but that was all right.

  “I’m busy, Topo. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to warn you, a sightseeing bus is here.”

  “I know. I saw it from upstairs when it was still crawling up the hill.”

  “It must be lost.”

  “It must be,” she replied and casually picked through the tomatoes. “So, what do you want?”

  “I wanted to tell you. They might want some lunch.” Marta stopped rinsing the tomatoes and stared incredulously at the short fellow smiling expectantly at her shoulder. He wore his smile like an apology, but his dark, close-set eyes were filled with expectation.

  “You ran all the way up here, in this heat, just to tell me that?”

  Guido’s foolish grin grew even broader as his cheeks flushed. He shrugged and felt like an idiot, as usual. After a moment Marta went back to her tomatoes. That was it. Apparently the audience was over. Guido didn’t know how to leave
and still salvage any dignity, and as the silence became more embarrassed, his absolute belief in his own idiocy compounded until a blush crept down his cheeks to his neck on its way to his toes. Finally, Marta broke the awkwardness.

  “Well, you must be hot.” And she called over her shoulder to the dining room, “Carmen, give Topo a glass of wine.”

  Guido moved across the kitchen toward the dining room. “Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to.” He had hoped for lunch.

  “Go on. I have a lot to do.”

  And she did. This would be the largest lunch crowd the hotel had seen in months. And it wouldn’t just be the bewildered tourists, but also all of the nosy villagers who would show up to stare at the bewildered tourists. She had a lot to do and Nina should be back with the bread by now.

  In the cool dining room, Carmen stopped laying out the folded napkins and silverware long enough to step behind the marble bar and pour a glass of red wine. Guido noticed the young girl’s hand shook slightly as she poured the Chianti and her eyes kept darting toward the empty lobby.

  “Here, Topo. Now, stay out of the way.” She handed him the glass with a nervous smile that told him that she didn’t have time to flirt right now, but maybe later.

  He nodded and quickly surveyed the empty room. He could already hear the jumbled voices of the tourists entering the lobby. Having tested the view from all of the stools and chairs in the bar many times, he chose a spot at the shadowy far end where he would have the best vantage to observe the action.

  It began slowly, in the tentative manner of all lost and confused foreigners afraid of invading the wrong space. But the room eventually began to fill with a dozen sweating, shuffling, middle-aged to elderly bodies grateful to Old Giuseppe Caproni for his cool tile floors and stone walls. They found their way to tables and chairs and collapsed.