Read Online The Miracles of Santo Fico by D. L. Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: D. L. Smith
Tags: FIC026000
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a defensible port.
Whether the error was due to Cosimo’s refusal to forgo his game of tag or bad eyesight or because he momentarily couldn’t remember the name of the correct town—his finger slammed down on a spot on the map with a decisive, “There!” To the minister’s surprise the wet fingerprint was on the tiny promontory of Santo Fico. To the best of his knowledge all that was there was an insignificant monastery, and the befuddled minister politely pointed out that there were probably no reasonable roads to that spot.
“Well, there should be,” roared Cosimo as he leapt back in the fountain. “And make it a fit place for my family. We want to summer there.” Then his wife, Eleonora, who was watching from the shade of a lime tree and whom he loved, teased him about the gray in his beard—and the splashing and laughter began again. So, without further protest, the adviser went off to write notes for the creation of a port, and a road, and a summer villa at . . . Santo Fico.
On that clean, warm morning neither the minister nor the Grand Duke realized his hurried finger thump missed the intended mark by a full two inches. But there was a day some years later when, exhausted with intrigues and worried about a war with France and an uneasy alliance with Spain, Cosimo requested a particular architect be sent to Livorno to inspect the harbor fortifications. When he was informed that the architect was unavailable because he was in Santo Fico picking mosaic patterns for the villa, Cosimo’s reaction was unexpectedly confused.
“Where?”
“Santo Fico, sire.”
“Where the hell’s Santo Fico?”
No matter how hard his memory was jogged, the great Duke could not remember giving any orders to build a road, or a port, or a summer villa “on some godforsaken crag, on a totally useless stretch of Tuscan coast!”
On that day his irritation quickly turned to rage when he discovered that this project had been going on for three years. And he became almost homicidal when he was told how much had already been spent on one misdirected finger. Work would stop immediately. Buildings would be deserted before completion; roads abandoned before they could be widened or even arrive at a destination. But it would all be too late, because even as Cosimo canceled his orders, his little mistake by the western sea was already a reality. Destiny had decreed a small port with a fine road up to what might have been an excellent little cathedral, the beginnings of a handsome villa, and almost a road to the outside world . . . and houses, and people, and a village called Santo Fico.
Of course, Leo Pizzola knew nothing about Cosimo’s inability to read maps. And even if he had he wouldn’t have mentioned it, because his version served his purposes better. There’s a time for facts and a time for stories. So, Leo let his observation “You all wonder why this’a village even exists at’a all” hang like a shroud over the room, and he waited and tried out a couple of different smiles—hopefully something a bit less threatening.
At last the flustered Englishman he’d approached sputtered painfully for an apology. To the Englishman’s surprise, instead of pulling a knife, this dangerous-looking Italian stranger presented a generous smile.
“No, no. Please’a, do not apologize. You are quite’a correct. It is’a most odd for many of the villages in this region. Many times we also ask’a ourselves, how come?” And he threw his hands up with an exaggerated shrug and a laugh.
All of the relieved English visitors joined him in his joke as they realized his intention was not to brawl or even to rebuke. He was actually being congenial and the fact that he spoke English implied that if he wasn’t completely cultured, at least he was civilized—and even possibly semiliterate. He was, after all, wearing a suit and tie—such as they were.
They quickly asked him to join their table, and just as quickly Leo declined. He
Whether the error was due to Cosimo’s refusal to forgo his game of tag or bad eyesight or because he momentarily couldn’t remember the name of the correct town—his finger slammed down on a spot on the map with a decisive, “There!” To the minister’s surprise the wet fingerprint was on the tiny promontory of Santo Fico. To the best of his knowledge all that was there was an insignificant monastery, and the befuddled minister politely pointed out that there were probably no reasonable roads to that spot.
“Well, there should be,” roared Cosimo as he leapt back in the fountain. “And make it a fit place for my family. We want to summer there.” Then his wife, Eleonora, who was watching from the shade of a lime tree and whom he loved, teased him about the gray in his beard—and the splashing and laughter began again. So, without further protest, the adviser went off to write notes for the creation of a port, and a road, and a summer villa at . . . Santo Fico.
On that clean, warm morning neither the minister nor the Grand Duke realized his hurried finger thump missed the intended mark by a full two inches. But there was a day some years later when, exhausted with intrigues and worried about a war with France and an uneasy alliance with Spain, Cosimo requested a particular architect be sent to Livorno to inspect the harbor fortifications. When he was informed that the architect was unavailable because he was in Santo Fico picking mosaic patterns for the villa, Cosimo’s reaction was unexpectedly confused.
“Where?”
“Santo Fico, sire.”
“Where the hell’s Santo Fico?”
No matter how hard his memory was jogged, the great Duke could not remember giving any orders to build a road, or a port, or a summer villa “on some godforsaken crag, on a totally useless stretch of Tuscan coast!”
On that day his irritation quickly turned to rage when he discovered that this project had been going on for three years. And he became almost homicidal when he was told how much had already been spent on one misdirected finger. Work would stop immediately. Buildings would be deserted before completion; roads abandoned before they could be widened or even arrive at a destination. But it would all be too late, because even as Cosimo canceled his orders, his little mistake by the western sea was already a reality. Destiny had decreed a small port with a fine road up to what might have been an excellent little cathedral, the beginnings of a handsome villa, and almost a road to the outside world . . . and houses, and people, and a village called Santo Fico.
Of course, Leo Pizzola knew nothing about Cosimo’s inability to read maps. And even if he had he wouldn’t have mentioned it, because his version served his purposes better. There’s a time for facts and a time for stories. So, Leo let his observation “You all wonder why this’a village even exists at’a all” hang like a shroud over the room, and he waited and tried out a couple of different smiles—hopefully something a bit less threatening.
At last the flustered Englishman he’d approached sputtered painfully for an apology. To the Englishman’s surprise, instead of pulling a knife, this dangerous-looking Italian stranger presented a generous smile.
“No, no. Please’a, do not apologize. You are quite’a correct. It is’a most odd for many of the villages in this region. Many times we also ask’a ourselves, how come?” And he threw his hands up with an exaggerated shrug and a laugh.
All of the relieved English visitors joined him in his joke as they realized his intention was not to brawl or even to rebuke. He was actually being congenial and the fact that he spoke English implied that if he wasn’t completely cultured, at least he was civilized—and even possibly semiliterate. He was, after all, wearing a suit and tie—such as they were.
They quickly asked him to join their table, and just as quickly Leo declined. He
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