Even St. Gancillo, when he reached his allotted place after his admission, found his little house ready alongside the others, with furniture, linen, crockery, some good books and so on. Also, leaning against the wall was an ornamental fly whisk, for even in this zone there are plenty of flies, though they are not troublesome.
Gancillo wasn’t a spectacular saint, he had lived the humble life of a peasant and it was only after his death that somebody considering his life recollected the grace that had filled this man, radiating from him by at least three-quarters of a yard, and the Provost (with not too much faith, it must be admitted) took the first steps toward the process of beatification. After that nearly two hundred years passed.
But deep in the bosom of Mother Church, little by little and without haste, the process went ahead. Bishops and Popes died one after the other and new ones were created: nevertheless the dossier of Gancillo passed almost of its own volition from one office to another, each time a little nearer the top of the pile. A breath of grace remained mysteriously attached to those now discolored files and there wasn’t a prelate who would have noticed it while riffling through the papers. This explains why the matter was never dropped, until one morning the image of the peasant framed in golden rays was hoisted up in St. Peter’s to a great height, while down below the Holy Father himself intoned the psalm of glory, elevating Gancillo to the majesty of the altar.
In his hometown they held high festival and one student of local history claimed to identify the house where Gancillo was born and where he lived and died, and it was converted into a kind of rural museum. But since nobody remembered him anymore and all his relatives had disappeared, the popularity of the new saint only lasted a few days. From time immemorial in that part of the world they had venerated another saint, Marcolino, as their patron and pilgrims came even from distant countries to kiss his statue, famous for its miracles. Right beside the ornate chapel of St. Marcolino hung with votive offerings and candles they built the new altar to St. Gancillo. But who noticed it? Who kneeled before it to pray? He was such a faded figure after two hundred years. He had nothing that could capture the imagination.
However, Gancillo, who had never imagined so much honor for himself, settled into his little home and, sitting in the sun on his balcony, blissfully contemplated the ocean that pulsed peacefully and powerfully below.
But next morning, having gotten up early, he noticed a uniformed messenger dismount from his bicycle and walk up to the next-door house with a large parcel, then pass on to the next house with another parcel, and so to all the other houses until Gancillo lost sight of him: but for himself there was nothing.
This continued on the following days: Gancillo, his curiosity roused, beckoned to the messenger and asked, “Excuse me, what is it that you are bringing every morning to all my neighbors, but never bring to me?”
“It is the mail,” replied the messenger, politely taking off his cap, “And I am the postman.”
“What mail? Who sends it?”
At this the postman smiled and made a gesture indicating, “Those on the other side—those over there—the people in the old world.”
“Petitions?” asked St. Gancillo, beginning to understand.
“Petitions, yes, prayers, requests of all kinds,” said the messenger in an indifferent tone as if they were trifles, so as not to mortify the new saint.
“And do as many as this arrive every day?”
The messenger would have liked to tell him that this was the slack season and that on high days there were ten, twenty times more. But thinking that Gancillo would be hurt, he got out of it with a “Well, accordingly, it depends,” and then found an excuse to slip away.
The fact is that no one ever applied to St. Gancillo, it was as though he had never existed. Not a letter, not a note, not even a postcard—and he, seeing all these packets every morning addressed to his colleagues, wasn’t envious, because he was incapable of wrong feelings; but he was ill at ease, almost remorseful at doing nothing while the others got through a great deal of work: in short, he almost felt that he was eating the bread of the saints under false pretenses (it was special bread of slightly better quality than that of the mere Blessed Ones).
This trouble caused him one day to reconnoiter in the neighborhood of one of the houses nearest to him, from which came a curious clicking.
“But of course, old man, come in: this armchair is quite comfortable. Excuse me while I just finish off a little job, then I’ll be with you,” said his colleague heartily. He then went into the next room and with amazing speed dictated to a shorthand typist a dozen letters and several orders of service, which the secretary hurriedly typed out.
After this he returned to Gancillo.
“Well, old man, without a little organization it would be a serious matter, all this mail that keeps arriving. If you’ll come here I’ll show you my new electronic card index with perforated slips.” It was indeed very ingenious.
Certainly Gancillo had no need of perforated slips. He returned to his little house rather crestfallen and thought: “Perhaps nobody needs me? So if only I could make myself useful. If, for example, I could perform a small miracle to attract attention.”
No sooner said than done, and he decided to move the eyes in his portrait that hung in his local church. There was never anyone in front of the altar of St. Gancillo, but it so happened that Memo Tancia, the village
