by Max Besora
“What breede of byzantine discussions art thine, sinner! Come now & recite the Apostles’ Creed: Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae,” stuttered the priest, “et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine …”
“Borne to a vyrgyn?” asked Joanet. “Tell me another one!”
“Do not blaspheme!” croaked the priest. “Come now, bade us continue: … passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad inferos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis, inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos…”
“You cain’t possiblee ween that, Father,” said our little hero, “not a person alive believeth that story ’bout dying & coming back ta lyfe. And me, I’m quite fonde of alle that up in Heaven, some eight years backe the Virgin of Montserrat appeared befor mee & gave me all sortes a bizarre orders, but she never did sayeth a worde ’bout nay communion o’ saints nor remissing o’ sins nor resurremption o’ flesh nor lyfe everylasting.”
“Son of a trollop! Tis people such as ye who shall breake the unanimitas! I should washe yer mouth out withe cow patties! Begone or I shall ‘ave you denunced fore the Holy See!” barked the enraged chaplain, ejecting him from the church with a bonus kick in the behind.
Old Orpí, seeing that the boy was useless both as a priest and as a peasant farmer, thought of enlisting him as a soldier. All of Piera’s human rejects ended up in the town’s military. Most of them were mental deficients who spent their days fighting with each other or playing craps. Normally they would bet their horses or their weapons or their wives, but eventually they’d almost always end up killing each other for some reason or another. Young Orpí joined the ranks at the age of fifteen and a mere two days later was already a compulsive gambler. He bet his sword and lost it before he’d even learned how to use it. He bet his saddle and lost it. Finally he bet the family home and lost it. When the soldiers came to make good on the debt, old Orpí beat them off with a hoe and quickly pulled his son out of the military.
One day, a cart filled with bohemians arrived in Piera, pulled by two old mules and followed by ten mangy, barking dogs. There were more than thirty people inside that cart, but less than fifty. They quickly set up a makeshift market in the town square. The oldest among them, a fat, blind woman, read people’s futures from the lines on their palms for a quarter real, and mapped out their astrological charts for the modest sum of one real. Joanet’s mother brought him there so the old pythoness would tell him his future, to see if they could shed some light on the boy’s fate. As the woman read the lines on Joanet’s small hand, she spoke in thickly accented Spanish, filled with Zs and splattered with caló.
“For Undivel’s13 sake! Thiz boy ’as a complicated future, murky and far-flung, in that order of importanze and thiz I decree. If ye want to know more, zen ye muzt pay two more coinz.”
“These chancers allways wanteth more coin,” complained old Orpí, who decided instead to see if he could place his son as an apprentice in some trade.
Father and son knocked on the doors of every artisans guild in Piera: stablemen, cordwainers, apothecaries, carpenters, shipwrights, blacksmiths, tailors, cutlers, furriers, matmakers, perfumers, bakers, sifters, equerries, etc., but none of them wanted anything to do with young Orpí because every guild had a very strict admission policy: if you aren’t the son of … you simply weren’t admitted.
“Blasted artisans!” complained old Orpí. “They cling to their titles like Jews to gold.”
“Indeedy, father,” said young Orpí. “I swere for as longe as I liveth to be mercyless against evil & fraud, and that no one mann under me shall go hungerly mere fur being poore or withoute pedigree, fore I shall allways protect the simple, oppressed man, punish all infamy, and allowe reason to triumf.”
His father, a sensible man, saw that his son had what was commonly called a “sense of justice.” That was when old Orpí had an idea. Which we shall reveal to you, dear reader, but not until the next Chapter.
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11. i.e. Philosophical/religious term that refers to the use of abstinence to control passions and lascivious thoughts.
12. i.e. Midday. The hour when workers prayed and entrusted themselves to the Virgin.
13. i.e. In Caló, the language of Spanish gypsies, God.
Chapter VII
In which young Orpí heads to Barcelona and along the way meets a priest who turns out not to be one
Seeing that Joanet would never be a farmer, nor a priest, nor a soldier, nor anything to put food on the table, his father came to the next logical conclusion:
“Sith yee be good for nuthing save reading fruitless books, thou shallt go to Barcelona & study thee law. Let us see if thou art quicker with thy tongue than with a hoe.”
Barcelona! Seat of knowledge and all the pleasures of the fatherland! Glorious womb whence sprung splendiferous Catalonia! Our young hero could scarce believe his ears! His siblings couldn’t believe it either, since Francesc, Maria Anna, and Joana were all better intellectually endowed than he; but such were the advantages of being the oldest son and heir.
Young Orpí dressed in his Sunday roast clothes: he put on some perfumed linen breeches, a new flannel shirt, his well-shined lambskin boots, and a white silk tie that was the envy of his schoolmates. He combed his hair with lamb grease like a prince, put on his red, velvet-lined dress coat and placed a feathered cap on his head. He lashed a dagger to his belt and, protected from the possible inclemencies of the voyage by a dark cape and a wide brimmed hat, he entered the courtyard of his home thus lavishly dressed. There he embraced his mother. She gave him a scapulary, which our hero hung around his neck, as well as a bag containing black bread and goat cheese for the road. Old Orpí gave our hero a small leather bag filled with gold coins, which were to last him the entire school year in the city, and a letter of presentation for a friend of the family, Antoni Carmona, who lived in Barcelona.
“Mind you look after yerself, mine son,” said his mother. “And forget ye not that desperation be the work of the Devil. Stay brave.”
“Yes, Mother, I have not fear of falling, nor of being beaten & robbed, insulted & disrespected, spat upon or condemned. Faith and mirth for living shall be my weapons,” he said, attempting to mount a horse gracefully, yet unfortunately tumbling off the other side of the saddle. “I shant let meself bee hoodwinked, Mother,” he continued, leaping onto the horse again, this time with better luck. “The roads of life bee perilouse, but I promise, saintly mother, to return to Piera some day, made the very Duke of Life! Knight of Jesus Christ … ! Victor over Death … ! Lord of the Counsell of the Celestial State and Cabinet … ! Protector of the Innocents … ! Subject of the Armies of Our Lo—”
“Desist thy prattling, son,” interrupted his mother, “and be on thy way alreddy.”
With that maternal decree, our hero leaves Piera at daybreak beneath a stagnant sun, before the rooster cockadoodledooed. He heads away from the church and the town castle, crossing the Guinovarda gully and riding along the highroad leading to the king’s road between Solsona and Barcelona. But after five hours of galloping through the groves of a very dense wood, bridging pits and ravines, young Orpí found a fork in the road, a Pythagorean Y. Saddened by the impossibility of taking both paths, he was still for a while, overcome by Herculean doubt over which he should choose. Finally, or perhaps impartially would be a better choice of words, he took the left path, which was much less overgrown than the one on the right. Our dear readers will soon be able to judge for themselves whether he chose well. After some time at a trot, young Orpí came across a priest and a dwarf who were idling beside a civilized fire on which a pungent chicken broth was bubbling.
“May the Lord keep you and save you and laud be to Saint Anthony, guide of pilgrims!” was young Orpí’s greeting, as he dismounted his horse and removed his hat.
“We’ll se
e about dat,” grumbled the dwarf. He had a tiny nose, a twisted back, and a bushy beard.
The priest, a thorny, disagreeable, and ecclesiastic figure, said, “On all the demons, arsworm, quit thy pessimissity and welcome this here gallant and marvellously dressed young man! How dost thou, boy! Whence come ye and wherefor art thee headed?”
“Mine name be Joan Orpí, of the Orpís of Piera, mine journey takes me to the capital, for to study at university. Mine illustrious parents (may God preserve them inn ’is glory) hath gaven me a bag rife with coin to keep me in vittles for what be left of the year.”
When the priest and the dwarf heard that, they looked at each other and an evil gleam lit up their eyes, which seemed for an eternal instant to house ten thousand miniature hells.
“Be seated here besydes us, young Orpí, and honore us with thine presence at our meal,” said the priest.
Our young hero sat between those two men and, accepting a wooden plate, served himself some food. While the three men wolfed it down, young Orpí kept staring at the dwarf.
“I reckon I knowe thee from somewhither. Didst thou perchance work in a circus that came through Piera many a twelvemonth ago?”
“Indeedy doo!” said the dwarf. “I did at one time but no longer, for that circus folded due to tha proprietor’s naturall death by murder. Mine name art Triboulet Dvergar the Distasteful, descendant of the illustrious Triboulet family which worked in the Court of René I of Naples, Louis XII, and Francis I, and what did inspire the great Rabelais for his Pantagruel, at thy servyce.”
“A right bizarre name, if ere I hearde one. And ye, Father, to which order are ye sworn?” asked Orpí.
“Betwixt vois et mois: the habit makes not the monk,” the man said, opening his cape to reveal a collection of lethal weapons. “Antoni Roca,14 at thy service. Sworn to nay religious order, rather I doth devote mine time to the lucrative taske of marauding.”
“I cain’t believe mine eyes … art thou the famous highwayman known as ‘the furor of Catalonia’?” asked Orpí, awestruck. “I was quite convinc’d you were naught but a tall tale! What a thrill to discovere thee here all alone!”
“I be far from alone,” said the fake priest. “I have a band of eighty menne with me.”
“I behold no menne,” said Orpí.
Hearing that, the fake priest whistled and from the bushes, as if by art of magic, appeared a band of men wearing shepherds’ cloaks and carrying knives, daggers, blunderbusses, and crossbows with arrows in place.
“These be myne menn: Underdogge (hello!), Brau (good day to you!), Pastoret (howdy … ), Langue d’Or, a professional jokester (ça va?), Matamoros (greetings!), Peu Leuger (Gascon, at your service), Denejat (hello!), Slim Jim (’cause I be trim!), and …”
The priest-bandit paused to think. There were so many men in his band that he couldn’t remember all of their names, so many that he started to get them all mixed up, and even began to wonder if he wasn’t losing his head.
“Fain to meet ye,” said Orpí, waving kindly to them all.
After the meal, the priest lit up a pipe and said, “I knewe an Orpí, he wart a count complete with castle, a well-to-do man t’anks to the high tariffs he charged his serfs. A despot and a sciolist, twasnt helde in high regarde. Yet the worst waer when he established a droit du seigneur. So, by law, every virgin in the region were passed through bye his ‘shotgun’ afore marrying.”
“Yoicks, wut a horriblis personage!” exclaimed Orpí.
“Forsooth,” said the priest. “But it did came backe to bite him in the ass. Long story short: suffice ta saye that the count went above and beyond his duties. In essence, he stucked his you-know-what whence it nair belonged.”
“And what happened thence?” asked our hero.
“Well, one fine day, the menn of the town ambuscaded the count as he strolled through the gardens beside the castle, and stoned him right to death. The lesson of the story being: don’t wish for more than you already have. War that Orpí, perchance, thine kin?”
“Be content with your lot, thou art everso right, illustrious & most reverend Sir Roca,” agreed Orpí. “But that Orpí of whom thou speaketh was no kin of mine; this is the first ere I heard that story, and all those of mine house, by my troth, are honorable persons.”
“Bully for you. Regrettably, these are harde times,” said the fake priest. “Being a bandit taint all it were cracked up to be. Far too much competition, ya knoweth?”
“Of course, of course,” stated Orpí, knowingly.
“As ye shall seeth anon, I’m an honorable person too … it’s just that ere so oft I needeth to make some bank.”
“Of that I am holy convinc’d!” said our hero, who, satisfied by the soup, settled his butt cheeks down onto the parched grass of the forest floor.
“And by mine word I’d like naught more than to bade thee continue along thy road without a hitch. Needless to quoth!”
“Thank thee, thank thee. Thou art awlfully kind, Sir Roca.”
“But now understand this: I must feed my men and clearly thou art transporting more coins than any single man needs. As such,” said the priest, pulling out a harquebus15 from his baldric, “as we sayeth in these parts: your money or your life, if ye be so kindly.”
“What? Mine God! But … but wherefor?” exclaimed our hero, with a start.
“Because I sayeth such,” ordered the fake clergyman.
Young Orpí was not a man of arms, and when he pulled his dagger from his belt the dwarf was able to take it from his trembling hands without him even realizing. Our hero put up no resistance after that, but did emit a ton of very real swearwords, moans, and tears, as he handed over the sack of gold coins, clink-clanking inside the little leather bag, to the fake priest.
“We oughten kill him,” said one of the thieves. “He’s awrfully loud.”
“No,” replied Triboulet the Dwarf. “We shall leave him live, as we art pinchers but not murder’rs. However, we shall hold on to his equestrian vehicle.”
In the face of the dwarf’s decorum, young Orpí came to the conclusion that there were bad people and worse people in these worlds of God. But nevertheless, he grumbled, “And what shall become of me, oh woe is mee, with neir money nor steed?”
“I shall give thee a mickle of counsell, completely on the house and only slightly theological,” responded the fake clergyman. “Do what everyone doeth and hath done in ev’ry single period of history: Steal all thou canst, wise up, do not steppeth on a crack, and get a damn clue! And let us hit the road anon, it’s late and threatens to rain!”
That said, the highwaymen gathered up their pots and took Orpí’s horse, then disappeared into the depths of the wood.
“Blast mine luck!” complained our young hero, as he began to walk through the wood without looking backward, since returning home was not an option. What would his family and the people of Piera think if they knew he’d let himself get robbed like a greenhorn? He preferred the uncertainty of the road ahead than the shame of having to backtrack. And thus, in that sorry state, young Orpí continued on, through the darkness of the heart of the wood, until … until the next Chapter.
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14. Here we find the first chronological décalage that we must clarify right away: the bandit Antoni Roca did indeed exist, but was executed in 1546, whereas Joan Orpí was born in 1593. Therefore, such a meeting was impossible and, as a result, suspicion persists as to the authenticity of the entire document.
15. i.e. Gun of the period.
Chapter VIII
In which young Orpí wanders through the woods, finds a clutch of horny witches, and goes to hell
The uncertainty of the road ahead, when one has no concrete destination in sight, stretches the minutes into hours and tribulations into eternal torment. And as this story of young Orpí lost in the wood is ever so sui generis, we shall tell it in the following manner. During those next few days our hero slept hidden amid the brush. Sometimes he took the advice of the
vicar-highwayman and stole the occasional hen from a farm before slipping back into the wood, but generally he was hungry, cold, and altogether melancholy. One night as our hero walked chip-chop-chip through the overgrown sward, he heard rustling noises beside a river. As he approached a clearing beswirled in fog, he discovered ten naked women dancing around a bonfire: pastoral devil worshippers celebrating a black mass.
The assembled women—most of them old, poor, and soft in the head—were smearing unguents all over their faces, anuses, and pustulous vaginas, as they kissed each other lasciviously, and sang out in Frog: J’adore, Monsieur Lucifer
Young Orpí, singularly innocent, went over to them in search of aid.
“Good even, ladies. Ye wouldn’t happen to haveth a bit of bread fer a hungerly soul? As mine luck would hath it, dread highwaymen pilfred mine coin & steed and anon I nar starving right to deathe.”
Seeing him, the witches took him for the sabbatic goat they’d been invoking since dusk with their black magic and, without hesitation, they pounced on him like a herd of ravenous wolves, ripping off his clothes and preparing to rape him. One sucked on his nipple, another stuck a rough tongue in his mouth, yet another tore his underwear, and there was even one who drank the blood of a dead rabbit while smearing it all over herself. As they raped him, the sodomitic enchantresses made our hero drink a potation containing old women’s molars, thornapple, belladonna, fly agaric, cascall, old hen schmaltz, and arsenic. Those herbs, rich in an alkaloid called atropine, acted quickly on the nervous system of our young hero who suddenly saw a crater in the earth open before him, as the sky darkened with shadows. Poor Orpí fell into a very pungent, sticky place. Everything stank of roasted flesh and all that was heard were souls shrieking in eternal pain, brought about by a perpetual flame that burnt their impious asses. One of the many souls there, by the name of Pere Portes,16 approached our hero and spoke to him.