Read Online The Miracles of Santo Fico by D. L. Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D. L. Smith
Tags: FIC026000
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understand a word of what Leo said, still recognized a few things—they knew he spoke of the great Duke Cosimo, they knew he spoke of Siena and probably a great battle, and they were sure he was telling a wonderful story extremely well.
Leo’s voice became an emotional whisper when he told how Cosimo’s officers carried their beloved Duke to the Siena Duomo and gently laid his dying body on the black and white marble floor beneath the great dome, so he could receive the last rites. But with a wounded gasp the noble Duke abruptly stopped them—
—And Leo also abruptly stopped.
From the back of the dining room two dark eyes burned into him like black firebolts. Without warning, Leo was facing the glare of Marta Caproni Fortino, and he knew instantly from the set of her jaw and the curve of her brow that her quiet fury was profound. Like a frozen Medusa, lightning shot from her dark eyes, seared his brain, and for a moment he was turned to stone. His words became like dazed soldiers who stumbled into one another as they scrambled to rediscover their place in the line of his story, but mostly he was just drowning in her sea of fury. As an Italian, Leo understood Marta’s seething rage—but he’d been living in America for so long that he was unused to it. Americans have never learned what the Italians have perfected—that is, the value of full-blown, for-all-the-world-to-see Righteous Indignation. And because, at that moment, Marta was boiling over with it, Leo was almost knocked to his knees by its full force.
Meanwhile, his rapt English audience was oblivious to his dilemma. In fact, most found Leo’s hesitation poignantly dramatic. The poor man was obviously quite moved by Duke Cosimo’s plight. On the other hand, the moment was not lost for the natives of Santo Fico. They were silent witnesses to an intense battle of wills that was both frightening and fascinating.
Finally, when the tension between the two contenders was pushed so far that half the room was ready to scream at them to stop and the other half was ready to scream at him for the finish of the story—Marta blinked. Then she sighed. She would allow him to continue.
For his part, Leo recovered as deftly as a cat that had slipped from a table. He knew exactly where he was in his improbable fiction, and like any great actor, he knew just exactly how to turn this awkward moment to his advantage. He simply began his description of the dying Duke’s last wish with a slight catch in his voice—and suddenly that long pause, which had actually only been a few seconds, took on a whole new meaning. This sensitive storyteller had needed that moment to master his emotions—and in a twinkling, Leo was rolling again as the tragedy of poor Duke Cosimo continued to unfold. He was so relieved that he even allowed himself a fleeting smugness that he was so much better at this than he was at hanging drywall.
Marta, of course, knew nothing about his years in Chicago hanging drywall (whatever that was). She was only thinking, How dare he do this in my hotel? How dare he wait until my restaurant is crowded with customers and then play his childish scheme?
Although none of the townspeople were foolish enough to openly stare at her, Marta could feel their eyes nonetheless, and so with a practiced response that she was no longer even aware of, she automatically closed off her heart and her mind to any feeling. She allowed nothing in and nothing was allowed to escape, because she knew what they were waiting for, what they wanted—and she was pleased that they would not get it today. This was not the day she would confront Leo Pizzola. Besides, too much of her life had already been a topic for their gossip. Too many times her grief had become nothing more than another whispered scandal or exaggerated rumor for the amusement of her neighbors. They acted as though they understood her life better than she did—and perhaps they did. They certainly knew enough secrets about
Leo’s voice became an emotional whisper when he told how Cosimo’s officers carried their beloved Duke to the Siena Duomo and gently laid his dying body on the black and white marble floor beneath the great dome, so he could receive the last rites. But with a wounded gasp the noble Duke abruptly stopped them—
—And Leo also abruptly stopped.
From the back of the dining room two dark eyes burned into him like black firebolts. Without warning, Leo was facing the glare of Marta Caproni Fortino, and he knew instantly from the set of her jaw and the curve of her brow that her quiet fury was profound. Like a frozen Medusa, lightning shot from her dark eyes, seared his brain, and for a moment he was turned to stone. His words became like dazed soldiers who stumbled into one another as they scrambled to rediscover their place in the line of his story, but mostly he was just drowning in her sea of fury. As an Italian, Leo understood Marta’s seething rage—but he’d been living in America for so long that he was unused to it. Americans have never learned what the Italians have perfected—that is, the value of full-blown, for-all-the-world-to-see Righteous Indignation. And because, at that moment, Marta was boiling over with it, Leo was almost knocked to his knees by its full force.
Meanwhile, his rapt English audience was oblivious to his dilemma. In fact, most found Leo’s hesitation poignantly dramatic. The poor man was obviously quite moved by Duke Cosimo’s plight. On the other hand, the moment was not lost for the natives of Santo Fico. They were silent witnesses to an intense battle of wills that was both frightening and fascinating.
Finally, when the tension between the two contenders was pushed so far that half the room was ready to scream at them to stop and the other half was ready to scream at him for the finish of the story—Marta blinked. Then she sighed. She would allow him to continue.
For his part, Leo recovered as deftly as a cat that had slipped from a table. He knew exactly where he was in his improbable fiction, and like any great actor, he knew just exactly how to turn this awkward moment to his advantage. He simply began his description of the dying Duke’s last wish with a slight catch in his voice—and suddenly that long pause, which had actually only been a few seconds, took on a whole new meaning. This sensitive storyteller had needed that moment to master his emotions—and in a twinkling, Leo was rolling again as the tragedy of poor Duke Cosimo continued to unfold. He was so relieved that he even allowed himself a fleeting smugness that he was so much better at this than he was at hanging drywall.
Marta, of course, knew nothing about his years in Chicago hanging drywall (whatever that was). She was only thinking, How dare he do this in my hotel? How dare he wait until my restaurant is crowded with customers and then play his childish scheme?
Although none of the townspeople were foolish enough to openly stare at her, Marta could feel their eyes nonetheless, and so with a practiced response that she was no longer even aware of, she automatically closed off her heart and her mind to any feeling. She allowed nothing in and nothing was allowed to escape, because she knew what they were waiting for, what they wanted—and she was pleased that they would not get it today. This was not the day she would confront Leo Pizzola. Besides, too much of her life had already been a topic for their gossip. Too many times her grief had become nothing more than another whispered scandal or exaggerated rumor for the amusement of her neighbors. They acted as though they understood her life better than she did—and perhaps they did. They certainly knew enough secrets about
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