I’m in no mood to write to Jack, nor doing much of anything else. For the past two, three days I’ve not heard from either Vittoria or Francesca. As usual: SILENCE. Apparently my destiny.
Hiked down to Forio Porto, and then took off my shoes and walked the length of the beach, feeling the sea surge around my ankles. Headed up the steep road toward Punta Caruso. The doors of the ancient church of San Francesco di Paola were open.
That dimly-lit interior did little to settle my impatient nerves. Especially depressing—other than all the representations of bloody Christian sacrifice—was a glass display case on the wall near the sacristy door. A collection of snapshots of parishoners’ sons, mostly sailors, who had been enlisted to die in one war or another. Here they are remembered.
The rural pastor in his sacristy. I imagined Padre was used to tourists snapping away at the life-sized Christ bleeding over there on the cross, and at the icons in the altar on the other side, but looking up and seeing someone like me entering his private little space was unexpected and astonishing. He did not know why I would want a photograph of HIM.
Padre was self conscious as he went about his tasks. Let’s see. Need to fix that Crucifix. Gesu fell right off the cross during the Agnus Dei. He must be returned to where he belongs.