The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

     St. Peter’s Square was a sea of humans, sweating in the rich afternoon sun. The forepart was cordoned off and chairs were set up therein where the VIP sat – the rich, those who had made particularly generous donations to the church, politicians and high level ecclesiastic officials. Before these was set a stage, with a small body of cardinals seated thereon, including Gonzales, O’Malley and Zuccarelli. On the stage was a podium. To the right of the stage sat the Choir of Apostle St. Paul. Carabinieri were stationed around this area, standing with legs apart, looking menacingly self important. Beyond them was the surge of humanity, made up in a large part by the sick, the cripples, the mad; those who had come with desperate hope – the hope that Christ Jesus would remove their miseries through his miracles, through the hands of his emissary, Pope Lando the Second. Blind men stood, their heads tilted back, mouths agape. Others, cripple of limb, pressed themselves forward, eyes wild with frenzied optimism. Christian youth, from all parts of Europe, waved banners, shouted and sang, happy to mix with the oppressed and the dispossessed before the eyes of God.

     As the time approached for the Pope to make his appearance, Di Quaglio grew apprehensive. He had never seen, in his life time, such a torrent of people fill St. Peter’s Square. He viewed many of them, those who had come with the mad desire to have their ills cured, little better than anarchists, and was extremely worried that they would cause trouble, or that some assassin would infiltrate their ranks, and find an easy target in the Primate of Italy. 

     “There are a great many sick in the square tonight,” Di Quaglio said to the Pope. “I am not sure you should go out. There are far too many. We can make an excuse. We can say that you are indisposed.”

     “Tell an untruth? For what reason?”

     “The situation out front is almost riotous. There are German teenagers chanting your name while a thousand cripples pound the pavement with their crutches.”

     “All the more reason to make my appearance.”

     “But many, – Many expect things. The sick seem to think you can help them, – heal them.”

     “And you have no such faith?”

     “No man has more faith in you than I Summus Pontifex,” Di Quaglio said seriously. “I am just not sure it is the dignified thing to do – to accommodate the riffraff.”

     “The riffraff, as you call them, need to be ministered to as much as any other social group.”

     “But there are ministers for that, you are the Pope.”

     “Yes, I am the Pope. I am Lando the Second, the first minister on earth, Servus servorum Dei, the Servant of the Servants of God.”

     He strode away. Near the door that led to St. Peter’s Square Marco approached him. His features were soft and sad. He looked miserable.

     “The task is taken care of?” the Pope asked.

     “Yes.”

     “And you are making further preparations? You have spoken with her?”

     ”Yes, we have discussed it.”

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

      Vivan walked through the large main doors and into the vast hall. The Pope was standing near the window, smoking a cigarette and looking out towards the Vatican hill and over the gardens. He did not immediately turn around and Vivan, thinking his own presence was not known, coughed.

     “Ah, there you are,” the Pope said, turning and flicking the ashes of his cigarette on the floor. “I was just admiring the view. The sight of boxwood and ilex trees I find particularly conducive to meditation. But come,” he said, gesturing towards a grand table set in the centre of the room, “please sit down. Between us, such old friends as we are, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”  

     Vivan was quick to express his admiration for the table arrangements. The English crockery was in excellent taste, adorned with a marigold pattern which was elegant rather than ostentatious and, though thoroughly antique, conformed to the requirements of modern aesthetics. The numerous vases of flowers decorating the table were arranged to the best possible advantage, filling the air with an intricate perfume, the perfume of rare blooms admixed with a particular striking beauty of blossom. There were magnificent fritillaria interspersed with jasmine and willow branches; alstroemerias in dazzling yellow and chaste white, spiked lobelia and mop-headed, pink hydrangea; water lilies floating in Mesopotamic bowls and Ming dynasty urns stuffed with sheaves of green wheat.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

     Pope Lando the Second stood atop the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele II, looking over the city of Rome stretched before him. The monument was majestic, pompous, just like the man it was dedicated to. The charioteers seemed more symbolic of the King of Piedmonte’s moustache than anything else; the colossal cavalier, in the very centre of the monument, an abstraction of his goatee. The sun was set and the Pope was disguised in a shabby wool suit and red wig. He had needed exercise and freedom of movement and had snuck out of the Vatican thus disguised. These secret tactics had become a habit of his; he treasured these incognito hours when his mind flowed smoothly and his most ingenious thoughts were born.

     “This city is mine,” he thought to himself as he gazed over the vast surface of antique houses, bits of old ruin and glorious palazzos.

     Feeling a sense of supreme dominance within him as his eyes met the dome of St. Peter’s rising in the distance, he ejected a cigarette from his pack and lit it, breathing in the ill but flavourful smoke with joy. He stalked down the steps to his right, past the Palazzo Nuovo and onto the Piazza del Campidoglio, the beautiful square designed by Michelangelo which sits like a nest atop Rome. A woman in flowing but tasteless wedding garments and a man, stiff in a rented tuxedo, were poised by the fountain, smiling into a half dozen cameras which snapped away at them. A rather dubious looking individual, dressed in blue sweatpants, a green shirt, a fishing cap and sunglasses stood near the grand steps, the Cordonata. Lando gazed at the newlyweds. They displayed two sickeningly sweet smiles. He turned his eyes towards the steps. The man in the fishing cap showed him his back and proceeded to urinate against the base of one of the mighty statues which stood at either end of the steps.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

     Cardinals, when given an audience with him, quivered from head to toe. Those used to addressing audiences of thousands found themselves speechless in his singular presence. The President of the United States, upon visiting Rome for the first time, obtained an audience for himself, his wife and daughter. The latter two dressed themselves in black, with black veils, like women from Sicily. The daughter wore red shoes, grotesquely incongruous with the occasion.

     “Red shoes!” Di Quaglio whispered to the Pope as they approached.

     “A dash of the Scarlet Woman in her, eh?”

     For the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth, the meeting was tiresome. The presence of the women, the nature of the visit, made the discussion of serious topics difficult to advance. He was glad to leave the Throne Room at the end of such a dull audience. He made his way through the Gallery of Maps, the walls rich with rare charts, cosmographical diagrams and paintings of naval battles. Turning the corner, into the Sala Dei Misteri, he saw Zuccarelli moving towards him with hasty steps, his face solemn and particularly dignified. Since his ascension to the important office he now held, the tall, thin ecclesiastic seemed more grave and distinguished than ever. Though he treated the Pope with the utmost respect, those of lesser status he glanced over with a level of contempt that made him notorious.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter  Thirteen

     The day after his coronation the new pope called Vivan and Zuccarelli to him, for a private audience.

     The two men were shown through the Sala degli Arazzi, its walls adorned with magnificent Gobelin tapestries, into the Throne Room. Pope Lando the Second sat at the far end, on his majestic seat. He was dressed all in white, except for a crimson hood which sat on his shoulders. A priceless Spanish carpet lay between the door and the throne. Vivan stepped forward first, minced through the stately chamber, climbed the steps leading to the throne and fell to his knees, kissing the Pope’s right foot, which rested on a crimson pillow. Zuccarelli strode forward. Five meters before the Pope he dropped to one knee, bowed and rose. He proceeded forward, climbed the steps to the throne, bowed and kissed the Pope’s hand.

     Pope Lando the Second spoke.

     “Both of you have been of inestimable service,” he said gravely, “and, now that I am in a position to show my appreciation, I intend to do so.”

     Zuccarelli nodded his head, as if to say: “I expected nothing less.”

     “The three of us have a bond,” the Pope continued. “Though not strictly a bond of friendship, it is none the less precious. Though it is true that spirituality and perfection are not necessarily connected with advancement in our holy order, we still, each of us, are happy to advance. I have advanced. You shall each advance. We advance together.” 

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

     Upon the news that the tongue had been restored to its rightful place, in the Basilica del Santo, the world rejoiced. Pilgrims in unprecedented quantities came from every continent and country to view the miraculous bit of flesh, first filling the hotels beyond capacity and then spilling out onto the streets of Padua, where they milled and moved with bovine facility. Under the recommendation of the city fire department, special guards were set up at the doors of the basilica with instructions to only allow a specified number of visitors in at a time. The number of pilgrims rapidly multiplied and soon they were requested to call ahead for reservations. The lines of people levelled off onto the via Capelli, where traffic was blocked. On several occasions the police were called in to control the mob, which periodically threatened to become violent. At one point an American man, far from lean in his proportions and wielding a camera menacingly over his head, made statements to a priest, the purport of which could not be mistaken.

     “I have been here since eight o’clock this morning,” the man shouted (it was then eleven). “You sons of bitches have been ignoring my reservation! Is this how you treat American citizens!”

     A number of his compatriots joined in, raising their voices high above the noise of the crowd, and, from what could be understood, demanded either entrance or sacerdotal blood. In the weeks that followed, similar outbursts were heard from groups of Germans, English, Danish and Irish. It was decided that those visitors willing to make a moderate donation of twenty euros would be allowed carte blanche status. A considerable sum was thus gathered, only about sixty percent of which found its way into the pocket of Bishop Vivan and, in turn, Cardinal Torturo. It was, after all, his tongue the people were paying to see.

      Meanwhile the other relics, that is Torturo’s femurs, fibulas, tibias, etc, were transported to Rome, where they were to be specially exhibited in the Vatican before being returned to their rightful home in Milan. The responsibility for promoting the event was handed over to the Italian Board of Tourism who, with their usual skill in attracting attention to the most splendid country on earth, did a marvellous job. Full page ads were taken out in all the leading Catholic newspapers, as well as the travel sections of both the New York Times and the London Guardian. The Italian Prime Minister, perfectly aware of the percentage of the profits he would gain, loaned his vast media-conglomeration-network to the exploitation of the restored relics at home, taking the line that it was, more or less, every Italian’s duty to view these emblems of their nation’s spiritual and cultural heritage. The admission to this magnificent display was a mere ten euros. 

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

     Before sending Marco to conduct the aforementioned business with Dr. Štrekel, Torturo had made sure that he was through with his services. The doctor had, within half a dozen surgical sessions, given the priest those miraculous relics of the saints to keep encased in his own living muscle and meat. In between operations Torturo had stretched his limbs and exercised incessantly. He ate restorative foods: tripe soup, wild pheasant and boiled marrow bones. Oils of myrrh and frankincense he rubbed on his wounds, and the proper incantations he muttered thrice daily, taking care to perform all the necessary articles of his practice.

     The priest who Vivan had once described as ‘inoffensive as a fly’ was rapidly coming into his own. That he had very little in common with a buzzing, two winged insect was now openly apparent. He had subjugated Vivan with ease. Zuccarelli could not be said to have been subjugated, but the man had clearly seen that to help Torturo was in his own best interest.

     Both men wondered about this priest, this well built man in his thirties who chain smoked Parisiennes and who, apparently, had as deep and dark a clandestine life as could be imagined. Rumours had been floating about for some weeks that he was occasionally visited by the Holy Ghost. He had been seen entering a cheese shop during a torrential rain, every inch of him completely dry. At the intersection of the via Benedetto Cairoli and the via Jacopo Avanzo a bus had run over a seven year old boy’s foot. Torturo instantly appeared upon the scene, pushed the hysterical mother aside and, after removing the boy’s shoe, rubbed his foot. The child laughed, rose to his feet and danced along the sidewalk.

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

      The pig had been hanging from the pine tree since morning, its hind legs secured to a branch by a rope. The doctor kicked Žnidaršič away from the pool of blood, cut the pig down and heaved its body into the centre of the court, near the well, onto the flagstones warmed by the sun.

     “This is good wholesome meat,” he murmured as he began to carve the pig.

     The dog barked.

     “Žnidaršič! Žnidaršič!” the doctor called.

     A man, probably in his mid-thirties, though with relatively boyish features, walked in. It was Marco. The dog ceased barking, approached Marco, and licked his hand and he, in turn, petted the dog

     “I was looking for a Dr. Štrekel,” he said, approaching the doctor.

     “Ah; and what do you need with him?”

     “I was told – I was told by a friend of mine that he could – That he could,” (grinning weakly). “Well . . . I was told that he could help me fulfil a certain urge.”

     “An urge, eh?” the doctor said, still leaning intently over his work and only glancing up.

     “Yes. I – I often think of spikes. Spikes and tusks. Pogo sticks, cucumbers and carrots. – Really I do need to be; – I do think of tusks so often!”

     The doctor looked at Marco archly. “Really?” he said.

     “Really. Much too often.”

     “So – you think of tusks?”

     “Yes. My general practitioner laughed when I told him what I wanted. He did not understand . . . I need someone who will do it for me.”

     “Do it?”

     “Yes. – Cut it off. Cut the left one off. I want the left one cut off.”

     “Are you serious?” The doctor’s intelligent eyes darted up and met Marco’s.

     “I have never been more serious. I have money and will pay. I want the left one removed.”

     “You have money and need some good work done, eh? . . . Well; then I suppose I am your man. Dr. Jure Štrekel at your service!” The doctor lifted up his hands. They were dripping with blood, the grim entrails of the pig hanging out of one clinched fist, like a macabre garland. “Ha!” he laughed, displaying his large, pink mouth and sparkling teeth. “I have been operating on this pork! – But come inside, I wash up and we talk things over.”

     Marco followed the doctor inside, the dog trotting at their heels. Nassa was in the kitchen, kneading dough. The doctor spoke a few words to her in Slovenian and she walked out of the room, inclining her head slightly towards Marco as she went.

     “So, what friend told you of me,” the doctor asked, rinsing his hands in the sink.

     “A friend; – an acquaintance of mine . . . A priest.”

     “Ah, the Father Torturo was it?”

     “Yes. He is my intimate friend.”

     “Then that is good. He is an honest man. – We drink wine and discuss business. It is better to talk business over wine.”

     “Certainly,” Marco agreed. “It might help me overcome my embarrassment. – I have never done anything like this before!”

     The doctor turned around and walked towards the cabinets, talking volubly as he did so about the quality of his teran, his ‘black wine’. Marco felt the pistol, which was equipped with a silencing device, in his jacket pocket and stepped behind the doctor. The doctor opened the cabinet, bent down, and reached for a plastic Sprite bottle, full of dark liquid. Marco slipped the gun from his pocket.

      “My wife will bring the prosciutto,” the doctor said, slowly rising. “We eat and drink a glass of the black wine, and then do business.” Unscrewing the top of the bottle, and lifting it to his nose: “That is our custom you know; we always drink a glass of wine before business.”

     “A good custom,” Marco said while placing the barrel of the gun a few inches from the back of the doctor’s head, and pulling the trigger. Without so much as letting out a cry, the man fell forward, slamming the cabinet door shut and then toppling to the floor. The open bottle dropped from his hand. A circle of blood leisurely expanded around him and mixed with the black wine, which flowed fluidly.

     Marco heaved a sigh. His arms hung limp at his sides. Žnidaršič licked his right hand, which still held the gun, and then began to lap at the pool of blood.

     Nassa, the doctor’s plump, blonde wife walked in carrying a plate of ham and a loaf of home baked bread which she set on the table. She smiled stiffly, cautiously at Marco. The only sound in the room was that of the dog, lapping away. Marco looked at her sadly, tenderly. Her own gaze dropped to the floor, where it fell upon the body of her husband swimming in gore. She shrieked, loudly and frantically, threw her arms in front of her face and staggered back. Marco lifted the pistol, bit his bottom lip, and shot her twice in the neck. She reeled against a wall and fell, sliding down, her legs sprawled. He approached the quivering body and dispatched a third bullet into her crown. Žnidaršič turned and barked, alarmed at the noise, which was like a melon dropped on the floor. The dog received its death, a bullet being sent into its head with cold precision.

     The young man dragged the woman’s body into the courtyard, a clear trail of blood streaking the flagstones behind her. He lifted the temperate corpse to the opening of the well, and threw it in. The doctor was quite heavy. His mouth was open and his white teeth shone in a set smile. Marco managed, with great effort, to drag him to the the well. Straining himself, he worked the heavy frame over the stone edge and watched it topple into the black hole. Žnidaršič he threw in after, and then walked back into the house and washed his hands in the sink, with hot water and soap. After drying his hands with a paper towel, he approached the table, stepping gingerly over the pool of blood. The loaf of bread, treccia, braided white bread glazed with egg, sat on a cutting board. A fly buzzed around the plate of ham, and alighted on a white spot of fat. Marco shooed it away, picked up a piece of the ham and ate it, slowly and despondently.

     “It is really quite good prosciutto,” he murmured.

Buy Here

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Nine

  Chapter Nine

     It was a grey day in Venice. The man peered through his sunglasses as the boat passed St. Mark’s and the Palazzo Ducale, with its knots of pigeon feeding fools and pairs of floundering tourists out front, inebriated by the foul lagoon air. He got off the boat at San Zaccaria, being careful, as he stepped, not to soil his white linen suit. His legs set off in rigid, determined strides down the Calle Albenesi, past the Prigioni. By his dress and his rather severe countenance, an onlooker would have taken him for some well-to-do German tourist or art collector – possibly an author; certainly not a plebeian. He looked at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past four in the afternoon, and doubled his pace. It was obvious that he had an appointment which he was eager to keep. He moved rapidly along the Calle Sagresita, in three sweeping steps crossed the Rio di San Giovanni Novo, turned up Ruga Giuffa, and, after negotiating a few minute back lanes, strode down an alley that came to a dead end at the Rio di San Formosa, the dark water splashing against the stone embankment where a small motor boat was moored. There was an undersized wooden door to his left, worn and patched, with a few flakes of green paint still adhering to it, the original coat of which must have been added to the antique portal at least fifty years previous. One of his long bony fingers stretched out and pressed against an electric bell with the name ‘Sig. C. Della Casa’ written beneath it. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped his forehead and waited, gently stroking a mouse that crawled out from the cave of his sleeve.

     Twenty minutes later the man was stripped to his socks and underwear, on his hands and knees in the interior of the apartment. A woman, Signora Clara Della Casa, stood over him, wearing knee-high leather boots, red lace panties, and a black latex top, which was cut low enough to reveal the majority of a swelling balcony. The windowless room was lit by a single phosphorescent bulb enwrapped in a red Chinese lantern which hung overhead. The steady surge of house music, a four-on-the-floor beat, pulsed from the stereo, adding a sense of youthful urgency to the scene.  

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

     It was early morning and still dark out when young Pepito stepped into Santa Giustina to pray, as was his custom. He went to one of the pews near the front, crossed himself, and then knelt down on one knee, lowered his head and pressed his palms together. His corral lips began to move, letting out low, sonorous tones, and his handsome, slightly feline face took on an angelic look. He was thoroughly abstracted in his communion with the supreme being – too much so to see the figure that had entered shortly after him and lurked silently in the shadows.

     Presently the figure stepped forward, moving slowly, noiselessly, and worked its way around the nave, to the pew immediately behind Pepito. It stopped, wavered back and forth like a pliant tree in a breeze, and then dramatically dropped to its knees and began to crawl along the floor. The young acolyte raised his head, looked around slightly and then settled back into prayer. The figure paused for a few moments, and then continued to creep along the pew, until directly behind Pepito. The young acolyte murmured a few words louder than the rest. The figure rose up behind him and, producing a fuller’s club from the folds of its garments, brandished it high.

     Pepito, apparently sensing the presence, lifted and turned his head. It was at that moment that the first blow fell, with manic force. The skull cracked and resounded throughout the church, like a pitcher of wine falling on a parquet floor. Pepito did not so much as let out a cry. He collapsed to one side; his eyes swam toward the frescoed ceiling. The attacker leapt agilely over the pew and proceeded to rain blows on the boy, who instinctively lifted his arm to his face, but in no other way defended himself. His neck, ribs and sides were beaten mercilessly, while a foot pressed in on his stomach, making him vomit a series of pale pink bubbles. The attacker kicked the acolyte’s chin. A sudden resonance, booming, ringing, shot through the church.

     The matins bells began to sound, and all Padua groan, forced to awake, forced away from simple sins and love making by these majestic cast iron contrivances.