As ordered, Pepino retreated from the portal, his arm about Violetta’s neck, and bethought himself of what he must do next to succeed in his purpose, for while he was disappointed at the rebuff he had received, he was not at all discouraged.
Despite the tragedy that had struck Pepino’s early life and robbed him of his family, he really considered himself a most fortunate boy, compared with many, since he had acquired not only a heritage to aid him in earning a living but also an important precept by which to live.
This maxim, the golden key to success, had been left with Pepino, together with bars of chocolate, chewing gum, peanut brittle, soap, and other delights, by a corporal in the United States Army who had, in the six months he had been stationed in the vicinity of Assisi, been Pepino’s demigod and hero. His name was Francis Xavier O’Halloran, and what he told Pepino before he departed out of his life for ever was, ‘If you want to get ahead in this world, kid, don’t never take no for an answer. Get it?’ Pepino never forgot this important advice.
He thought now that his next step was clear; nevertheless, he went first to his friend and adviser, Father Damico, for confirmation.
Father Damico, who had a broad head, lustrous eyes, and shoulders shaped as though they had been especially designed to support the burdens laid upon them by his parishioners, said, ‘You are within your rights, my son, in taking your request to the lay Supervisor and it lies within his power to grant or refuse it.’
There was no malice in the encouragement he thus gave Pepino, but it was also true that he was not loath to see the Supervisor brought face to face with an example of pure and innocent faith. For in his private opinion that worthy man was too much concerned with the twin churches that formed the Basilica and the crypt as a tourist attraction. He, Father Damico, could not see why the child should not have his wish, but, of course, it was out of his jurisdiction. He was, however, curious about how the Supervisor would react, even though he thought he knew in advance.
However, he did not impart his fears to Pepino and merely called after him as he was leaving, ‘And if the little one cannot be got in from above, there is another entrance from below, through the old church, only it has been walled up for a hundred years. But it could be opened. You might remind the Supervisor when you see him. He knows where it is.’
Pepino thanked him and went back alone to the Basilica and the monastery attached to it and asked permission to see the Supervisor.
This personage was an accessible man, and even though he was engaged in a conversation with the Bishop, he sent for Pepino, who walked into the cloister gardens where he waited respectfully for the two great men to finish.
The two dignitaries were walking up and down, and Pepino wished it were the Bishop who was to say yea or nay to his request, as he looked the kindlier of the two, the Supervisor appearing to have more the expression of a merchant. The boy pricked up his ears, because, as it happened, so they were speaking of St Francis, and the Bishop was just remarking with a sigh, ‘He has been gone too long from this earth. The lesson of his life is plain to all who can read. But who in these times will pause to do so?’
The Supervisor said, ‘His tomb in the crypt attracts many to Assisi. But in a Holy Year, relics are even better. If we but had the tongue of the Saint, or a lock of his hair, or a fingernail.’
The Bishop had a far-away look in his eyes, and he was shaking his head gently. ‘It is a message we are in need of, my dear Supervisor, a message from a great heart that would speak to us across the gap of seven centuries to remind us of The Way.’ And here he paused and coughed, for he was a polite man and noticed that Pepino was waiting.
The Supervisor turned also and said, ‘Ah yes, my son, what is it that I can do for you?’
Pepino said, ‘Please, sir, my donkey Violetta is very sick. The Doctor Bartoli has said he can do nothing more and perhaps she will die. Please, I would like permission to take her into the tomb of Saint Francis and ask him to cure her. He loved all animals, and particularly little donkeys. I am sure he will make her well.’
The Supervisor looked shocked. ‘A donkey. In the crypt. However did you come to that idea?’
Pepino explained about Giani and his sick kitten, while the Bishop turned away to hide a smile.
But the Supervisor was not smiling. He asked, ‘How did this Giani succeed in smuggling a kitten into the tomb?’
Since it was all over, Pepino saw no reason for not telling, and replied, ‘Under his coat, sir.’
The Supervisor made a mental note to warn the brothers to keep a sharper eye out for small boys or other persons with suspicious-looking lumps under their outer clothing.
‘Of course we can have no such goings on,’ he said. ‘The next thing you know, everyone would be coming, bringing a sick dog, or an ox, or a goat, or even a pig. And then where should we end up? A veritable sty.’
‘But, sir,’ Pepino pleaded, ‘no one need know. We would come and go so very quickly.’
The Supervisor’s mind played. There was something touching about the boy – the bullet head, the enormous eyes, the jug-handle ears. And yet, what if he permitted it and the donkey then died, as seemed most likely if Dr Bartoli had said there was no further hope? Word was sure to get about, and the shrine would suffer from it. He wondered what the Bishop was thinking and how he would solve the problem.
He equivocated: ‘And besides, even if we were to allow it, you would never be able to get your donkey around the turn at the bottom of the stairs. So, you see, it is quite impossible.’
‘But there is another entrance,’ Pepino said. ‘From the old church. It has not been used for a long time, but it could be opened just this once – couldn’t it?’
The Supervisor was indignant. ‘What are you saying – destroy church property? The entrance has been walled up for over a century, ever since the new crypt was built,’
The Bishop thought he saw a way out and said gently to the boy, ‘Why do you not go home and pray to Saint Francis to assist you? If you open your heart to him and have faith, he will surely hear you.’
‘But it wouldn’t be the same,’ Pepino cried, and his voice was shaking with the sobs that wanted to come. ‘I must take her where Saint Francis can see her. She isn’t like any other old donkey – Violetta has the sweetest smile. She does not smile any more since she has been so ill. But perhaps she would, just once more for Saint Francis. And when he saw it he would not be able to resist her, and he would make her well. I know he would!’
The Supervisor knew his ground now. He said, ‘I am sorry, my son, but the answer is no.’
But even through his despair and the bitter tears he shed as he went away, Pepino knew that if Violetta was to live he must not take no for an answer.
‘Who is there, then?’ Pepino asked of Father Damico later. ‘Who is above the Supervisor and my lord the Bishop who might tell them to let me take Violetta into the crypt?’
Father Damico’s stomach felt cold as he thought of the dizzying hierarchy between Assisi and Rome. Nevertheless, he explained as best he could, concluding with, ‘And at the top is His Holiness, the Pope himself. Surely his heart would be touched by what has happened if you were able to tell him, for he is a great and good man. But he is busy with important weighty affairs, Pepino, and it would be impossible for him to see you.’