The Miracles of Santo Fico (32 page)

When the food was gone, mostly into Leo’s stomach, he sat back and lit a cigarette. Now it was Carmen’s turn to look on longingly.

“Can I have one of those?”

Leo studied her for a moment before he tossed her his cigarettes and matches.

“I thought you didn’t approve of my smoking,” said Carmen as she lit her cigarette and tossed them back to Leo.

“Why would you think that?”

“The way you looked at me the other day when you saw me smoking.”

“Smoking’s stupid. But when I saw you the other day, smoking was the least stupid thing you were doing.”

Carmen didn’t like that kind of bluntness, especially from a man.

“Did you tell my mother?”

“What, that I saw you smoking?”

“Did you tell her that you saw me with Solly?”

“No.”

“Why not?

“You’re not my daughter. It’s none of my business.”

For some reason that she didn’t understand, Leo’s words stung more than she expected. Maybe because he was so cold in his not caring. Maybe because when she saw Leo she thought of her father. Hadn’t they been best friends? Shouldn’t she matter to him? Why didn’t he behave like all the other boys? It occurred to her that maybe it was because he was a man and not a boy. She was used to boys.

“That’s right. It’s none of your business. You’re not my father. My father’s dead.”

“And you can thank your lucky stars for that.”

Carmen almost choked. How could he say something so cruel? How could he say that she should be glad her father was dead? It was terrible. It was horrible. She hated him for even thinking it.

“How dare you say that—”

He turned to her with a swiftness that left her startled, and although his voice remained low and calm, his eyes drilled into her and she was frightened.

“Because I knew your father, and if you think he would have put up with any of the crap you dish out, you’re crazy. He would have slapped that cigarette out of your mouth so fast your head would have spun around three times. He hated to see women smoke. And if he had seen you with that kid the other day, you wouldn’t be sitting down for a week, and that greasy little pimple who was feeling you up would be wondering if he’d ever walk again.”

It took Carmen a moment to realize that her jaw was hanging slack and she’d forgotten to breathe. She could feel a knot tightening in her throat and her eyes were stinging. Leo asked, “Have you finished with the kitchen yet?”

The young girl heard herself mumble that she hadn’t as she scrambled to pick up the remains of their lunch. She wanted to get back inside before he had a chance to see the tears she knew were only seconds away. When she was gone, Leo sat back and finished his cigarette. It was a start.

That afternoon Leo forced himself to go into the house a number of times. He would unexpectedly wander into the kitchen or living room to check on Carmen’s progress. He didn’t care how much she cleaned, of course, he just wanted to take opportunities to establish his authority. And over the course of that day she became somewhat respectful and sometimes actually even seemed anxious to please.

It was in the late afternoon that something happened that Leo couldn’t have anticipated. He was throwing his piles of trash onto the cart—he’d already taken two loads to the fire pit across from the olive grove—when he happened to look up and see a figure approaching from out of the northwest. It was a rider on horseback and with the afternoon sun reflecting off the sea, the blinding light seemed to rest on the rider’s shoulders. Leo recognized the visitor immediately and strolled out to meet him. Carmen, who was on the porch and also saw the rider, called to Leo.

“Who’s that?”

“Paolo Lombolo. His family grazes some horses here.” At nineteen years old, Paolo was the youngest of the four Lombolo brothers and Leo’s favorite. He was quiet, always polite, and when he felt at ease he could often be funny. It was his habit to ride down from his family’s ranch once a week and check on the horses. The Lombolos had a huge ranch up the coast just south of Punta Ala, with many orchards and vineyards, but Paolo loved the horses. When he rode south he always kept his eyes open for Leo so he could pass along his father’s greetings.

Watching his young visitor ride out of the sun’s glare hurt Leo’s eyes, so he turned his gaze back toward the house and discovered Carmen was still on the porch. She might as well have been turned to stone, she was that transfixed by what she saw. Her eyes were filled with a wondrous sort of terror. Leo looked back at what she was gaping at and he tried to see what Carmen saw, but there was only Paolo Lombolo astride his dappled mare, riding out of the sun. And as the mare galloped up the slope, Paolo’s long black hair rose and fell across his tan shoulders in thick waves. He sat tall on the horse and they seemed to move with one motion. The sun burned across his bare arms and everything about him was cast in bronze and slow motion. To Leo it may have just been Paolo Lombolo coming by to say hello, but he could see in Carmen’s face that to her it was lightning shooting out of the west and scorching her heart.

Paolo finally slowed the mare to a walk and gave Leo a warm wave. From the shade of the porch Carmen studied the high cheekbones of his tanned face and the way his teeth shone white and his dark eyes smiled. From the corner of his eye Leo saw the girl suddenly turn and dart back into the house.

“Hello, Paolo.”

“Hello, Signore Pizzola. That looks like hard work. It must not be as hot here as it is at our place.”

“It’s got to be done.”

“Did that earthquake leave you with more than you bargained for?”

Leo felt a quick electric shock shoot up his spine and tingle the hair on the back of his neck as he automatically thought of the fresco and he snapped back guiltily, “No! What? What do you mean?”

“Did the earthquake do a lot of damage in the house?” Leo tried to cover his paranoia with an equally nervous chuckle. “No. Just time for a little cleaning up.”

“It’s looking good,” said Paolo, nodding his approval. But the boy had other business on his mind and didn’t seem to notice Leo’s anxiety.

“My father wanted me to ask you a big favor. This heat is hurting our orchards and so all of our water has to go to the fields. He wants to ask if we might bring the rest of our horses down here? Just for a little while?”

“How many horses is that?”

“It’s another six. I know it’s a lot to ask, but my father’s sure that it would only be for maybe a week or so. He swears that there are clouds in the west and he says he feels a heaviness in the air, and that means a storm is coming.”

“Bring your horses tomorrow and leave them as long as you need. I’ve opened the well at the top of the fields, so there’s plenty of water.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell my father. And I’ll tell him about the work you’re . . . doing . . . on . . . the house . . .” Paolo’s voice trailed off as his attention was captured by something beyond Leo’s shoulder. Carmen crossed the porch with a glass of water in each hand.

Now, Leo had watched Carmen strut around Santo Fico for weeks and he had watched her flirt dozens of times, with old men, young men, even little boys; anything male—just for practice. She’d even turned her flashing eyes and coy smile on him once or twice. But this girl who crossed the porch with the two glasses of water, Leo didn’t recognize her—with her eyes cast to the ground and her small, shy steps. And when she held the water out to Leo, he saw something else in her face that he’d never seen before. Carmen was nervous.

“It’s so hot, I thought you might like some water,” she said sweetly.

Leo was startled again by her gentleness. He took one of the glasses to drink, but Carmen cleared her throat and twitched her head slightly, yet emphatically, toward Paolo. Leo understood—how could he be so rude to his guest?

“Ehh . . . Paolo, would you like a drink of water?” Carmen held the water up to him and smiled and Paolo Lombolo almost melted out of his saddle. His face, which had first gone ashen when he watched her cross the porch, now became so flushed that Leo worried about the boy’s blood pressure. By now Leo was looking for his cues, so when Carmen turned to him again with her brow furrowed and lips pursed, he was on top of it.

“Paolo, have you met Carmen Fortino?”

Carmen smiled modestly. Paolo grinned like a moron, but it was obvious from his feeble grunts that the young rider wanted to speak—unfortunately, the complexity of language had momentarily escaped him.

“Carmen’s helping me clean up the house.”

Paolo drained the glass of water without ever taking his eyes off her.

He mumbled a “Thank you,” and politely handed the glass back to her.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered hoarsely, staring at the mare’s uninterested face.

Having accomplished this exchange, they each tried to think of something else to say, and failed. Leo held out his empty glass to Carmen also, but she ignored him and instead hurried back across the porch and disappeared into the house.

“So Paolo, we’ll see you tomorrow with the horses?” “Ah . . . Yes, signore, tomorrow . . .” Paolo seemed to study the patio’s tile pattern for a long time before he asked with a casual nonchalance, “Will she be here?”

“Probably.”

“Ah . . . Oh . . . Well . . . Tomorrow.”

Paolo turned the dappled mare back toward the sea and rode off to check on his horses, but looked back over his shoulder no fewer than three times, trying to catch a glimpse of the beautiful girl in the house. Once he was completely gone from view Carmen casually returned to the porch and called to Leo.

“Did you say he was coming back tomorrow?”

“Did I? I think maybe . . . Why?”

“No reason.”

She gave her head an indifferent toss and turned to go and it was a wonderfully haughty exit—except she missed the front door by a full meter and bounced her face off the plaster wall. But still, she recovered quickly and hurried back inside.

For Leo, everything fell into place in an instant. It was like inspiration.

TWENTY

T
he next morning when Carmen arrived for work, Leo noticed a few changes. Most obvious was that the previous day’s ragged cutoff shorts and old tank top had been replaced with a light billowy skirt and airy summer blouse. The folded bandanna that had so efficiently held her hair in place the day before was missing and instead a bright crimson ribbon held back her freshly washed hair. Also missing was the meager cloth bundle used for yesterday’s lunch. Today Carmen lugged a wicker basket that took both arms to carry and Leo’s stomach growled its anticipation.

Within their first hour, Leo was glad he’d gotten a full day’s work out of her the day before because today she couldn’t seem to stop cleaning the northwest windows. He also got the impression from Carmen’s occasional caustic comment about her mother that she and Marta had crossed swords that morning. He wasn’t surprised. He could imagine Marta’s reaction when Carmen came downstairs, prepared for another day of grimy house cleaning, dressed like she was going to a birthday party. Then there was that wicker basket that Leo prayed contained lunch. It had been unexpectedly generous of Marta to prepare enough food for both of them the previous day and Leo was curious as to what story Carmen might have told that prompted Marta to prepare that suitcaseful of food. If Marta had thought Leo was a pig before . . . Oh, well . . . If his plans worked out he wouldn’t have to deal with either of them much longer.

Leo tried to spend his morning working outside, but the unexpectedly helpless Carmen continually found herself in need of guidance—so every few minutes she wandered outside with a new silly question. Finally he had to find chores for himself inside, just to keep the girl busy. But what was worse, as she became comfortable around him, her questions became more personal. She wanted to know about her father, she wanted to know about her mother, and she wanted to know about them together, she wanted to know all kinds of things that Leo either didn’t know or didn’t want to talk about. Something was bothering Carmen and now, whatever it was, was also beginning to bother Leo. He tried to answer her questions, but it seemed that no matter what he said, Carmen was determined to turn or twist it into a snipe at her mother. They were working together in the living room when Carmen finally asked the oddest question of all and for Leo it was the last straw.

“You knew my father. Tell me the truth, okay? Did he seem . . . kind of dumb to you?”

“What! Are you crazy? No, he wasn’t dumb. He was smart. Why would you ask a crazy question like that?”

“He married my mother. How smart could he have been to have married my mother?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Leo exploded. “Why would you say a smart-aleck thing like that? All day you’ve been at your mother. Knock it off, okay?”

“Okay. I thought at least you’d understand.” “Understand what?”

“You know how she is. I see how mean she treats you.” “How your mother treats me is none of your damn business. Maybe she has her reasons. What’s she ever done to you—except watch out for you and worry about you and want what’s best for you?”

“How would she know what’s best for me. She’s never been anywhere and she’s never done anything. She spent her whole stupid life in this stupid little town and she acts like she knows everything. She knows nothing.”

Leo stood motionless for a moment, as if he were lost in some difficult decision—and when he finally did move across the room it was so sudden, Carmen thought for a moment he was going to strike her. She was already backing up when he put his index finger on her chest and pushed. Carmen fell into the chair that was waiting behind her.

“Stay there.”

On the far side of the living room was an old cedar trunk covered with a lace shawl that stored the most meaningful of the Pizzola family treasures. It didn’t contain ancestral jewels, or ancient deeds, forgotten land grants, or valuable coins. This chest was reserved for much more important treasures, those that are irreplaceable and beyond value— the shawl his great-grandmother wore on her wedding day, yellowed family pictures that dated back to the invention of the camera, precious letters, delicate baby clothes. It was a hodgepodge of cherished mementos whose origins were dim—but Leo knew them all. He knelt before the trunk and carefully dug through his past. He lifted out a large Bible that was so old the leather was turning to dust and Leo noticed that his hands were shaking as he set it gently on the floor. He was especially careful not to disturb any of the paper-thin flowers that had been gathered by generations of his family and pressed between the dry pages. Then he carefully lifted out three old magazines.