PIETRARUBBIA

They have come to this valley from the towns and villages of Montefeltro and San Marino, from cities like Cesena in the north, Fano and Pesaro on the coast of the Adriatic, places, all of them, with more commerce, more people, more life than this valley, but fewer miracles.

Some have been carried on backs or wheeled in carts to be blessed by the padre’s curative powers. For cataracts to be dissolved. A club foot unfurled. A debilitating pelt of boils not unlike Giuseppe’s own childhood infirmity to acquiesce.

Most, however, have come under their own propulsion, able-bodied, in high spirits but for a nameless lack that, in quiet moments, can cast them into splenetic fits. Bowls of soup tossed against walls. The muzzles of barking dogs gripped tight long beyond the time of whimpering. This lack, this dryness, Giuseppe has also known, though he has well and truly transcended it now.

They have come, drawn by the promise of wonders, to this valley. The abandoned castle and deconsecrated church perched on an outcrop of rock hold no interest for them. They are not tourists.

They have come for as long as it will take. They have built huts along the road to the Capuchin convent. They have opened inns for the half-hearted who hope to catch a glimpse of the famous friar while on their way somewhere east or west.

He has been here not yet three months.

It is autumn. The trees look tired and the summer chorus of birdsong has been reduced to the occasional friendless call, just as the valley comes to life with pilgrims seeking the man who can ascend toward the heavens.

Even so, the concourse of people to see Giuseppe had been many times larger in Assisi, with its latent mass of believers, its perennial influx of pilgrims, its ready-made inns and comfortable Roman roads. Concerned, Pope Innocent X finally asked that Giuseppe be removed. Take him somewhere: in the mountains, perhaps. Shield him. Preserve his sanctity. At first, Giuseppe was loath to leave Assisi, which held the tomb of Saint Francis, whom he called his Father, and his companion, Lodovico, who was still very much alive. The Father Inquisitor of Perugia could not move the tomb of Saint Francis, but the written order said nothing about Lodovico. On hearing that his companion would make the journey too, Giuseppe kissed the feet of his superior and leapt into the waiting litter, lashed between two mules, that would carry him he knew not where.

The journey across the Apennines had been treacherous. Lodovico was frequently in tears as he walked behind the litter, seeing it and its precious cargo totter on the edge of this ravine or that. Rocks fell across their path. Mules lost footing. But Giuseppe’s heart remained tranquil, his eyes dry, his mouth slit open in smiling wonder at the Highest Father’s creation.

The new residents of Pietrarubbia have heard this story and contributed to its embellishment. The hat, mantle and breviary Giuseppe left behind in Assisi, such was his rush to obey the will of his superior. The girl in a house wherein they sheltered, her soaring fever quelled by Giuseppe’s prayer. The lame stonemason who walked away cured. The thieves who beset the small travelling party but were undone by Giuseppe’s scrutiny of hearts, his speaking truth where there had been so little for so long.

It is 1653. Rembrandt is painting Aristotle contemplating a bust of Homer. The last teams of workmen and elephants are putting their final weeks of labour into the Taj Mahal. Cromwell has expelled the Rump Parliament and the Barebones is sitting in its place. Pascal, not yet distracted by religion, is working on many practical things, including readying his Treatise on the Equilibrium of Liquids for publication, wherein he says, ‘All these examples show that a fine thread of water can balance a heavy weight,’ before going on to demonstrate the cause of this multiplied force. In this world, at this time, as in all times, there are pockets of enquiry, pockets of brilliance, unfaltering faith, crazed credulity and supreme artistry, just as there are great oceans of hard-headedness, kindness and covetousness, all overswept with waves of grief and joy.

These people in this valley of the reddish rocks can wait no more. The Mass is being performed in the church. It’s him, they say, passing this knowledge down the line. Father Giuseppe is saying Mass.

The small church is already full when they arrive. Who are they, these blessed pilgrims, these grafting sons of whores? How did they get here so quickly? Someone has bolted the doors from the inside. Those left outside can hear singing, a lone high voice unacquainted with tune. A pained castrato? A madman? No, they whisper. Giuseppe.

Giuseppe.

Soon he will shriek like a gull struck with a sharp-edged stone and ascend above the altar. They claw at each other to peer through the crevice between the wooden doors. They climb over the wall to the olive grove that abuts the church, looking for other openings, weaknesses. They climb on the shoulders of others; form groaning, cursing, human ladders to reach the roof. Those who make it up do not thrust a hand over the ledge to pull up a fellow Christian. They are attacking the roof tiles to permit a bird’s-eye view of the Mass. Below, they are scratching at the mortar of the church’s walls with sticks, boot heels, fingernails; rooting at the dirt as if to burrow beneath and through to the sight they seek.

They have come to this valley and they can wait no more. They have been about this world for so long and merely heard of ecstasy. They have fucked and punched and shat and puked, and they want instead to see a man take flight and, at last, give credence to the gut that says such a force exists and refute the other hissed whisper that says this shitty little life will not be followed.