Saint Francis (8 page)

"You heard me every midnight, Clara. But you won't hear me again."

The girl tossed her head. Her long hair bounded against her shoulders and the ribbon which had secured it came undone.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"I don't know yet, Clara. Don't ask me. Perhaps I'll sing beneath some other window."

"Some other window? Which? Whose?"

Francis lowered his head. "God's . . ." he murmured, but so softly that the girl did not hear.

She came one step closer. "Whose?" she repeated. "Which window?"

But this time Francis did not reply.

"Come, Clara, let's go and play," said one of the girls. "Don't talk to him. Why are you talking to him?" They both began to pull her by the hand, anxious to leave.

But Clara stood her ground, toying with the green ribbon which had come undone from her hair. She was slender, lithe, and was dressed entirely in white, with no ornaments save a tiny golden cross, her baptismal cross, hanging from her neck, and, as a talisman, a silvery lily between her slightly raised, still unripe breasts. What was astonishing about this girl was her eyebrows. Above the eyes they were slender, straight as arrows; but then they shot abruptly upward, and thus her black, almond-shaped eyes seemed constantly severe and angry.

Seizing her undone hair as though infuriated at it, she gave it a twist and tied it up tightly in the ribbon of green silk. Then she turned to her companions. "Come," she said spitefully. "We'll go further down to the other church, the Portiuncula, and let Sior Francis stay here to do what he likes. It seems he had a dream!" Ermelinda picked up the basket, grumbling; Agnes, the younger sister, took the little basket that contained the fruit, and with Clara in the lead all three started off through the olive trees, headed for the plain below.

"We're saved . . ." murmured Francis, and he breathed in deeply, as though he had just escaped an immense danger.

He collapsed onto the doorsill and watched the three girls through the olive trees as they gleamed in the sunlight one moment, faded the next, and finally disappeared.

"We're saved . . ." he repeated, and he stood up.

It must have been almost noon. He looked at me. All signs of fear had vanished from his face.

"Brother Leo"--his voice had changed now, had become serious and resolute--"Brother Leo, didn't we say the two of us were an army and that we were setting out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher? Do not smile--I want you to believe! We're going to start with small, easy things; then, little by little we shall try our hand at the big things. And after that, after we finish the big things, we shall undertake the impossible. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, or do you believe I'm still bedridden in Bernardone's house, and that I'm delirious?"

"Undertake the impossible, Brother Francis?" I asked, terrified. "What do you mean? How far do you plan to go?"

"Brother Leo, didn't you yourself tell me how you once went to a famous ascetic who disciplined himself by living in the top of a tree? 'Give me some advice, Holy Father!' you called to him. And he answered you: 'Go as far as you can!' 'Give me some more advice, Holy Father!' you shouted a second time. 'Go further than you can!' was his answer. . . . You see, Brother Leo, we are going to go further than we can. Right now we are using the ruins of San Damiano's to give us momentum. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Don't ask me questions, Francis," I replied. "I understand nothing and I understand everything! Just command me!" My heart had caught fire; it could have consumed an entire forest.

"We'll gather stones. I still have some of Bernardone's money in my purse: we'll purchase cement and mason's tools and then the two of us will get down to the business of reinforcing the walls. We'll also buy tiles for the roof so that the water won't come in when it rains; and paint for the windows and doors; and oil for the saint's lamp. How many years has he gone without illumination? We shall illuminate him. Agreed?"

I rolled up my sleeves. His words had fired my blood.

"When do we start?"

"Now. San Damiano is exposed to the rain; he is falling in ruins, stumbling in the darkness; he cannot wait. But our souls, Brother Leo: do you think they can wait? They too are exposed to the rain; they too are falling in ruins, stumbling in the darkness. Forward, comrade! In God's name!" He threw off his velvet coat and began to arrange the large corner-blocks that had fallen down and filled the yard. I lifted the hem of my robe to form a sizable pocket and then ran all about filling it with stones which I carried to one spot and deposited in a pile. While working, Francis began once more to sing the troubadour songs he had learned as a child. They were about love. Love for whom? The troubadours had embellished the virtue of the beloved lady; but this time as Francis sang, surely he was thinking of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

It was already evening when we returned home. The whole way we talked passionately about stones, cement, and trowels--like two masons; and it was just as though we had been talking about God and the salvation of the world which was about to fall into ruins. That evening I understood for the first time that all things are one and that even the humblest everyday deed is part of a man's destiny. Francis too was deeply roused; he too felt that there is no such thing as a small deed or a large deed, and that to chink a crumbling wall with a single pebble is the same as reinforcing the entire earth to keep it from falling, the same as reinforcing your soul to keep that too from falling.

As we came within sight of the house, Lady Pica was sitting at her window, searching the road anxiously. The darkness had not fallen yet; it was still light outside. Making us out in the distance, she went downstairs to open the door personally. She intended to scold her son for being late and for tiring himself while he was still sick, but when she stood in front of him and saw his face, she could not speak. She gazed at him in astonishment for a moment; finally she opened her mouth:

"Your face: why is it beaming like that, my son?"

"If you think it is beaming now, Mother, just wait!" replied Francis with a laugh. "This is only the beginning. We're on the first step, and all in all there are seventy-seven thousand."

He took his mother by the arm and leaned over to her ear.

"Tonight Brother Leo is going to eat with us--at the same table!"

The next morning we slipped out of the house at dawn like two thieves and went down to the market place. We bought tools--two hammers, two trowels--also paints and brushes, and we ordered tiles and cement. Then we set out hurriedly along the road to San Damiano's.

There were scattered clouds in the sky. The weather was cold; a nipping breeze came from the mountain. The cocks had begun to crow in the courtyards; men and beasts were awakening. The olive trees glistened. The oxen had already departed for their sacred daily toil.

"This is the way the soul awakens," said Francis, turning to me suddenly. "It too has oxen, five of them. It puts them under the yoke early in the morning and begins to plough and sow." "To sow what?" I asked, unable to understand.

"The kingdom of heaven. The kingdom of heaven, or else the Inferno," answered Francis, and he stooped to pick a beautiful yellow daisy from the edge of the road.

But as he was putting out his hand, he suddenly restrained himself. He had changed his mind.

"The Lord sent it to adorn the road. We must not prevent God's creatures from fulfilling their duty." When he had said this he waved to the daisy with his hand as though saying goodbye to his own beloved sister.

When we finally reached the dilapidated chapel we found its curate seated on the threshold sunning himself. He was an old man bent over with the years, and ravaged, just like the tiny church of San Damiano, by poverty. When Francis was a short distance away from him, he halted for a moment, startled.

"Is it possible that you are San Damiano?" he mumbled.

But he set himself to rights immediately, and taking a few additional steps, came near the man and recognized him.

"It's old Father Antonio, the curate. I know him."

Relieved, he advanced and greeted the priest, kissing his hand.

"With your permission, Father, we are going to repair the church. The saint came to me in my dreams and I gave him my word."

All of a sudden the curate raised his head. Though his body was tottering, his eyes were still two flames.

"Why didn't he come to me in my dreams?" he asked angrily, reproachfully. "I've grown old in his service, haven't I? He's eaten me out of house and home with the oil I've needed to keep his lamp lit, the brooms to sweep the place out, incense to make him smell nice, wine to wash his effigy. And did he ever appear to me in my sleep to say anything pleasant to me? Never! And now--what next!--he's come to the likes of you. . . . Aren't you Sior Bernardone's debauched, prodigal son--the one who spends the whole night roaming the streets with his guitar?"

"Yes, Father, that's who I am: the debauched, prodigal son."

"Well then, what can God expect from you?"

"Nothing," Francis answered. "Nothing. But I expect everything from Him."

"What do you mean: 'everything'?"

"The salvation of my soul."

The priest lowered his head in shame and remained silent, his hand held over his eyes to keep the sun from burning them. Rolling up our sleeves, Francis and I got down to work and little by little, without consciously meaning to, we both began to sing. First we ran to and fro gathering stones; then the cement arrived and we took up our trowels. We were like a pair of birds building their nest.

"What do we resemble, Francis?" I suddenly asked my companion, and he answered laughingly: "Two birds who are building their nest in the springtime."

The priest had risen: he was gazing in our direction, saying nothing. Every so often he threw a furtive glance at Francis and crossed himself. Around noontime he left to go to his tiny house, which was next to the church, and in a little while he returned carrying a wooden platter with two barley rolls, two handfuls of black olives, an onion, and a small jug of wine on it.

" 'If a man work, let him eat,' commanded the Apostle Paul," he said to us with a smile.

It was then that we first became aware of our hunger. Sitting down cross-legged in the yard, we began our meal.

"Have you ever eaten olives as tasty as these, or such delicious bread?" asked Francis, chewing his barley roll with relish. "Have you ever drunk such exquisite wine?"

"Once and only once," I answered, "but that was in my dreams (hungry people obviously dream of bread). I had just entered heaven; along came an angel with a platter exactly like this one, and it was loaded with barley bread, olives, an onion, and a small jug of wine. 'You've come a long way; you must be famished,' the angel said to me. 'Sit down and eat and drink before you have your audience with God.' I stretched out on heaven's green turf and began to eat. Each mouthful went down inside me and instantaneously turned to soul. Bread, wine, onion: all turned to soul. Just like now." We set to work again. Hewing stone, mixing cement, singing all the songs we knew, we calked the fissured walls. Night began to fall. For a moment I imagined San Damiano had emerged from the church and placed himself in the doorway, from where he was watching us with satisfaction. But then we saw it was the priest, and that he was smiling.

"Who knows, perhaps he's San Damiano after all," said Francis, glancing with respect at the tiny old man who stood on the threshold. "It's possible that after so many years of prayer and poverty the two of them have become one."

And truly, when darkness fell and we finally stopped work and went to bid him good night, his face was as radiant as a saint's.

I shall not relate here how many days and weeks we worked. How can I remember! The time raced by like a babbling brook and we babbled along with it, painting, chinking the tiles on the roof, wielding our hammers, trowels, and brushes. Each day the sun rose, mounted to the center of the heavens, set; the evening star appeared in the western sky, night fell, and we climbed up toward Assisi, happy, our hands spattered with cement. . . . The only thing I can say with certainty is that during each of those sacred days and weeks both of us experienced the sense of joy, urgency, and love possessed by the bird that is building its nest; we discovered, for the first time, the true meaning of "nest," "bird," and the exultation of realizing that your insides are filled with eggs! For the rest of our lives those days were to shine out, tender and lavish of grace, as though they had been a period of betrothal, the betrothal of our souls to God.

"What has happened, what has happened, Brother Leo?" Francis asked me one morning as we began work. "Did the world change or did we? I weep, I laugh, and weeping and laughing are the same thing. I believe I'm walking a man's height above the earth, suspended in the air! And what about you, Brother Leo?"

"Me? I believe I'm a caterpillar buried deep down under the ground. The entire earth is above me, crushing me, and I begin to bore through the soil, making a passage to the surface so that I can penetrate the crust and issue into the light. It's hard work boring through the entire earth, but I'm able to be patient because I have a strong premonition that as soon as I do issue into the light I shall become a butterfly."

"That's it! That's it!" shouted Francis joyfully. "Now I understand. God bless you, Brother Leo! We are two caterpillars and we want to become butterflies. So . . . to work! Mix cement, bring stones, hand me the trowel!"

Just as we were finally about to complete the rebuilding of San Damiano's, old Bernardone returned from his trip. He was taken aback when he did not find his son at the shop. Francis came no more to help with the business, but left at dawn, returned after dark, ate all by himself: Bernardone never saw him any more. "Where does your darling go every morning instead of looking after the shop?" he asked his wife with irritation.

She lowered her gaze, not having the courage to face him directly.

"He had a dream," she answered. "San Damiano--great is his grace--came to him and ordered him to repair the church."