Сан Леонардо

[raf_sh]

Интересно, достроена ли наконец обитель Св. Леонардо (впрочем, вряд ли). И как там падре Пьетро.




http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/john-walsh/tales-of-the-italian-hills-holy-man-with-a-pizza-habit-556270.html

Tales of the Italian Hills: Holy man with a pizza habit

By John Walsh


I first heard about the Hermit of the Crag of Hell at the end of our first week in the Sibylline mountains. We were staying in a villa in Le Marche, where smiling hills and charming Italian neighbours compete for your attention with torrential electric storms and colossal oil-tankers overtaking you at 120kmph on superstrada 77. I'd been told about L'Infernaccio, a spectacular local landmark. It's a high, narrow gorge where the base of two rocky mountains form a vertiginous V-shape, a waterfall crashes down, and only a reckless fool would think of climbing there. The local name of Infernaccio translates as the Infernal Gorge, the Crack of Doom, the Crag of Hell. Do you get the impression that it's a rather unfriendly place? It is. The locals mention it in hushed and guilty voices, the way Transylvanian tavern regulars respond to enquiries about Castle You-Know-Where.

I asked around and discovered the secret history of the Crag of Hell and its neighbour, the Hermitage of St Leonardo. The hermitage has been there for centuries, but in early times, it was far from holy. People hint darkly that it was once (pre-AD800) used by the pagan cult of the sibyl for sacrificial rites of expiation and purification. Knives, guts, dancing by moonlight, that kind of thing. Later, it was inhabited by a sturdy order of Camaldolite friars, who left it in 1563 because (as they wrote to the local mayor and to the Pope) it was so bloody uncomfortable, harsh, severe and horrible, they couldn't stand to live there a second longer.

And obviously, I said, nobody lives there now... "That's where you're wrong," said Matthew, an Englishman who lives in a mountain village nearby. "There's been a hermit at San Leonardo's for the last 20 years. Living alone, in the most hostile terrain in Italy. The only thing is..."

He stopped. "Yes?" I prompted. "The thing is," said Matthew, "he's a very... unusual hermit." How so? "Oh, people gossip terribly around here. But they say - and I've no idea if it's true - that he throws dinner parties. Ten guests at a time, apparently."

This was intriguing. Remember how, in Tom Stoppard's Arcadia, there's a discussion about how one goes about finding a hermit to inhabit the newly refurbished stately home? The architect suggests advertising in the personal column of The Times. "But surely," the lady of the house protests, "a hermit who takes a daily newspaper is not a hermit in whom one can put one's absolute confidence."

I pressed for further details. It seemed that many hill-village locals had disobliging stories to tell about the reclusive holy man up at the Ravine of Death. He had blotted his copybook some years before, by arriving in town at a pizzeria during an unusually cold snap in November, and ordering a Napoletana with extra anchovies. (Rumours suggested that he had even asked to see the carta dei vini.) Local bartenders told of shaken mountaineers reporting, after their terrifying ordeal on the windswept hillside, how they'd been surprised to see a cowled figure, not just flitting among the rocks but coming over the Escarpment of Fate to say hello, to shake them warmly by the hand and ask about the fortunes of Juventus in the Serie A.

I became fond of this shadowy figure, the least-convincing hermit in history. I imagined him greedily devouring the Italian celebrity-gossip magazines, looking for information about Christina Aguilera's new single. I thought of him seeking out (incognito under his habit) limited-edition cold-pressed olive oil in the shops of Monte San Martino, with which to make his legendary minestrone, which he would laughingly ladle out for passing hill climbers. I dreamt of him perusing, with furrowed brow, catalogues for Dolce e Gabbana sunglasses and Patek Philippe watches. I hallucinated that I saw him from the beach at Porto San Giorgio, cruising through the Adriatic waves on his cabin-cruiser yacht, a foxy horizontale in skimpy swimwear leaning on each brown-robed arm. I wondered if he secretly decamped to Urbino in summer, for a week of sophisticated stand-up comedy. I even considered visiting www.ermito/cragofhell.com for details of his August schedule.

Then I sought out some real guide-books, and discovered that he does exist, he's a Capuchin friar called Fr Pietro, and he's reconstructing the ancient church single-handedly. "He has widened the path to allow the passage of a small tractor," a sober mountain route-finder explained. "He is reconstructing the church on authentic Romanesque foundations, but by using questionable architectural criteria, he has irritated some people."

I think we can easily infer what's going on here. The widened path is not for "a small tractor" at all. It's to allow the passage of several trailer lorries bearing funfair rides: Dodgems, waltzers, octopuses, chair-o-planes - yes, I can see them all, coming over the cascading waterfalls of the Canyon of Night. The "questionable architectural criteria" are not, as some might think, bits of inappropriate Gothic pillar, but howlingly erotic neoclassical statues and a bar area modelled on Monica Bellucci's breasts.

He's an inspiring figure, this holy anchorite and Wordsworthian solitary, whose nerve broke one day when he simply had to pop into town for a pizza. Hoping to spot him, I set off with a friend, to traverse the dangerous terrain around Rubbiano and walk for two hours, over rocks, vipers, precipices, to the church of San Leonardo. Sadly, we gave up after 90 minutes of wheezing discomfort, and went for a beer instead. Of course, I regret not meeting the Hermit of the Scar of Hades, but it probably would have been an anticlimax. And I wouldn't have wanted to disturb him while he was putting the cheerleaders through their paces...

2007