For the first two years he studied philosophy, elocution, geography, mathematics, natural sciences, and Church history. The last four years he studied Holy Scripture, rhetoric, English and French, apologetics, dogmatic, moral, and pastoral theology, liturgy, Gregorian chant, canon law and bookkeeping.
His means equated perfectly with his aims.
The fathers considered him very devout, though somewhat proud. He fasted often, kept four Lents a year, scrupulously fulfilled his duties and, when talking, did so to a purpose. He had been seen, on his knees before the image of Christ, for often five and six hours at a stretch, presumably in prayer. He would often walk in an orchard near the school, a work of the Greek or Latin fathers in one hand, and read aloud. He was humble before his betters, steady towards his equals and was not condescending towards those lower than himself. Though many were cautious with him and none loved him, his merits could not be denied. He had advocates rather than friends, but, more importantly, he had contracted no enemies.
He spent six years in ecclesiastical training, and was then ordained. By the age of twenty he had secured a doctorate in canon law. He was declared a fit ambassador of Christ. With his scholarship and obvious abilities, advancement seemed assured.
He was sent to the Archbishop of Ferrara, who was in need of a secretary. The archbishop was a fat, extremely oily looking man, with an immense liquidy second chin and a loose, sensual bottom lip. He offered his hand. Xaverio grasped it and felt the man’s moist palm press against his own for a prolonged instant. The man regained his seat, and Xaverio sat opposite, on a low wooden chair. The bishop perused the letters of recommendation sent by the rector and other members of the seminary staff, occasionally raising his eyes and casting on Xaverio a thorough glance.
“Well,” he said finally, setting down the papers. “You sound like an appealing young man: healthy; with good work capacity; you celebrate daily the Eucharist and the Liturgy of the Hours; no manifestations of hereditary illness in your family; – You should do just fine – As long as you studiously perform your duties.”
Xaverio inclined his head and thanked the bishop.
“No need to mention it. You are consigned to my care as a son, and I have every intention of treating you as such.”
Xaverio, now a relatively handsome and extraordinarily fit young man, went to sleep that night with his thoughts set on a grand career in the service of God. Though the way was surely difficult, it was at least possible. He was now in the service of the bishop. The bishop was obviously disposed in his favour. Advancement seemed, if not assured, surely probable. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. Around one in the morning he was awoken, his flesh being pressed against by a hot hirsute object and his bed suddenly cramped. He leaped up and began to defend himself, delivering rigorous blows with his fists in the dark and, when his arms grew tired of those, kicking with all his might until the thing flailed out of his bed and threw itself on the floor. The young man was disgusted and stirred by adrenaline. Not content with the small amount of ground gained, he took the water jug by his bedside and began to pummel the writhing mass with it. When the jug broke, he continued his work, utilising the broken handle and portion that remained intact in his hand, lashing out and letting it be known through his fury that he in no way approved of his sleep being disturbed in the aforementioned manner.
A number of the household’s priests, undoubtedly hearing the scuffle, burst into the room. The light was turned on. The bishop lay on the floor, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. A half dozen rather serious gashes marked his chest. Though Xaverio’s conduct was certainly not approved of, no one dared call in the police. It would have been difficult to explain what the old ecclesiastic was doing in the young man’s room, at that hour, stark naked, with a consalateur grasped in his hand.
The bishop was taken back to his room, to be attended to by the physician in ordinary. Torturo was shipped off post haste to Padua with letters of introduction and a dossier worded in such a way as to let it be understood that the father was to be given the least possible room for advancement.
Distraught at his sudden change in fortunes, he internally cursed God, the priests and the boiling world. When duty did not call, he set off, like a blood-thirsty lion striding down the streets, to the edge of town, where for hours together he would prowl the hills, the wheels of his mind grinding to dust all the fantasies he had once entertained of an easy rise. His black image could be seen, disappearing amongst the trees, arms motioning impetuously and a fist occasionally flying heavenward where clenched it would tremble.
Gradually however, after mature reflection, he became, not resigned to the situation, but able to accommodate himself to it. If this was the Church’s way of saying ‘check,’ he would reorganise his forces until he could one day say, with a sardonic grin, ‘check mate.’
At Padua, due to the influence of the Archbishop of Ferrara, his quick intelligence was altogether ignored and he was assigned the most ignoble of tasks. He was made to sweep and mop the floors of Il Santo, as well as clean the toilet stalls of the clergy residences. After supper he washed the dishes. In the early morning he polished the bronze sculptures and candelabra.
He performed these duties without complaint.
Gradually the incident in Ferrara was forgotten, all the more so as the archbishop of that diocese passed away in a manner which brought the church but little glory. Torturo gradually burrowed his way into the realm of less filthy duties, toiling patiently and keeping his sights still keen on ultimate advancement.
He made marvellous use of what hours were left free to him. Twice a week he would take the train to Venice, which was a mere thirty minutes away, and visit a scholar, one Pierluigi De Vecchi, in the old Jewish section of town, who, for a small fee, taught him Hebrew and more than the basics of Talmudic lore and Kabalistic philosophy. It was fitting he studied thus, in Venice, where the Talmuds were first collected into a concrete whole, and printed in the year1520. Pierluigi was more than a mere academic; he was the bearer of an ancient and precious line of learning.
They read together the Sepher Yetzirah and the books of the Zohar. Pierluigi schooled him in the principles of Macroprosopus and Microprosopus, and also the doctrine of reincarnation. They read deeply into the works of Rabbi Judah Ha Lévi, Rabbi Moses Botarel, Ibn Gebirol of Cordova, and, in particular The Philosopher’s Stone of Rabbi Saadiah. He learned about the secret import of Tobias 6:18-19 concerning the roasting of a fish’s heart in the bridal chamber, as well as all that was held in the extra-canonical passages of Schabbath, Adoba Zara and Sanhedrin.
Pierluigi particularly emphasised the power of seraphim, cherubim, as well as instructing on the lore of Adam’s other wife, Lilith, with whom he, the first man, had had alternative offspring.
“Oh, it is quite clear,” Pierluigi said with glittering eyes, his lips pulling at an old tobacco pipe. “In Genesis five it says that Adam lived a hundred and thirty years, and begot a son to his own image and likeness. In the Hebrew this passage leaves no room for doubt; – If he begot a son in his own image and likeness, the explicit implication is that he had first begot a son not in his own image and likeness.”
“Which is, I suppose, a confirmation that there are powers both good and evil.”
“Oh, we are not talking about good and evil here. We are talking about the powers and things that be. The sons in his own image could hardly be called good; Cain shows us that by murdering his own brother. And those not in his own image . . .”
“Are not evil?”
“Well, no more so than suffering and death. When we slaughter the scapegoat, it cannot be considered an evil thing. By laying hands on it, it is imbued with the sins of the people, and thus we slaughter it; – its suffering and death are not evil.”
“But the laying on of hands; – is that a necessary facet of the ceremony?”
“Imposition of hands is vital to all the sacred performances. It is absolutely vital. Jacob bequeathed a blessing
and inheritance to his two sons Ephraim and Manasses by placing his hands upon them. Aaron and his sons, the elders and the Levites lay their hands on the heads of the bullocks and rams prior to sacrificing them. Moses spread abroad his hands unto the Lord in order to make thunder and hail cease; and Joshua the son of Nun was full of the spirit of wisdom after Moses laid hands upon him.”
“So the hands are the conveyors, the tools of some sort of . . . magic?”
“They are.”
The library annexed to the University of Padua, which is one of the oldest universities in Europe, built by Sansovino in 1493, had an excellent collection of manuscripts, including even a few Assyrian tablets composed in cuneiform, copied from Babylonian originals, which dealt with the Chaldean period. These, with the help of an obliging professor, he managed to translate. They treated the subjects of astrology proper and medicinal magic as used by the Babylonian hierarchy, the Baru and Ashipu priests. Amongst the incantations there were the Shurpu, a spell for removing curses due to lawful contamination; Maklu, which was a counter-spell against wizards and witches; Utukki limmuti, which were a series of sixteen formulae against ghosts and demons; and Asaski marsuti, which were a series of twelve formulae against fevers and sickness.
“Naturally, a man like yourself must find these things somewhat scandalous,” the professor said, as they gleaned over the script before them.
“Not in the least,” Torturo replied. “I find it immensely interesting. It is, after all, part of the ancient history of our own Christian religion.”
“Possibly, but many inveigh against such works as the teachings of the father of falsehoods.”
“Often people warn us against things that they themselves do not understand. Christianity, after all, did most certainly evolve from animism, astrology, divination, magic and fetishism.”
“That is not unlikely,” the professor said with a smile. “But, you are taking evolution as your premise, which the Church is not yet reconciled to. Though you seem to be a logical man, the corporation you work for is not so broad minded.”
“I work for the corporation of imga; I work for the corporation of God, the corporation of the profound truth,” Torturo replied with the utmost seriousness, looking gravely into the professor’s eyes.
“Yes,” the professor said, clearing his throat, adjusting his glasses and turning back to the manuscript that sat between the two men. “Well, in any case, let us get back to this section dealing with mysterious performances, videlicet: the recitation of formularies, gestures, and the blending of incongruous elements.”
“Very well. The lines describing the transference of consciousness spell particularly interest me.”
“Do they? I found some manuscript pages recently which, I believe, deal with the same subject.”
“You believe?”
“Well, yes. I found the manuscript stuffed within the body of an old German Bible. There are a few phrases in Greek characters which point in the same direction as the lines to which you refer. The majority of the text is however in Hebrew, which, frankly, I know little of.”
“It sounds very interesting.”
“Yes; I will loan you the manuscript if you like.”
“I would like nothing better.”
The manuscript proved to be extremely interesting. Written in a very small, concise hand, on fourteen strips of vellum and two of roan (the latter being in a rather deteriorated state), the material, though mostly in Hebrew characters, was not Hebrew, but a combination of Hebrew and transliterated Greek and Latin. No one without a fair knowledge of all three languages could have understood the contents. Torturo was fluent in two of the three languages and understood the third tolerably well.
The title of the manuscript was The Just Treatise of Transposition; Transferring the Substance of the Dead to the Living, and the Fundamental Nature of the Living to the Dead, and claimed itself to be the work of Simeon ben Jochai. That it was written during, or just after the reign of the Emperor Titus seemed likely from certain passages; – though, judging from its style, it could have been composed anywhere from 50 to 300 A.D.
Chapter Five
“Cin-cin.”
The two men lifted the glasses to their lips and drank. The wine, though not especially good, was pleasant on the tongue. Outside it was wet and chilly. To be near a fire, drinking, whatever it might be, was a comfort. The light from the fire glowed on their faces: one had features soft and gentle, the other’s were like stone. The men were nearly the same age, but one looked ten years older than the other.
“I will change my occupation,” said the softer, younger looking of the two.
“What?”
“Yes – it is only me and mother now. There is no longer any need to keep it up.”
“But it is your livelihood!”
“I am amazed to hear you, to hear a man of your calling say such a thing!”
Torturo shrugged his shoulders. “I respect filial duty,” he said.
“Even if it means slaying your neighbour?” Marco asked in a whisper. “I cannot believe you truly think that.”
“They are only metaphorically your neighbours. You have been brought up to perform a certain task; – That is the blade of reality.”
“But . . . But, living without morality: It sickens me!”
Torturo took a sip of his wine.
“A certain English psychologist once said that nature’s order is far older and more established than our civilised human morality.”
“Nature’s order?”
“Certainly: by killing, you are following the dictates of nature.”
Marco sighed. “You are smarter than me,” he said, “but that does not make you right.”
“No; it only makes me easy as to the ultimate fate of your soul.”
Torturo lit a Parisienne and crumpled the empty pack in his palm.
“I wish I were a priest like you,” Marco said.
Torturo smiled grimly. “And sometimes I wish I were a hired gun like you,” he murmured.
The waiter, a young, spectacled man in his early twenties, approached the table.
“One . . . You can have one more,” he said awkwardly. “We . . . You see, we close in thirty minutes. So, if . . . If you want another you can have it.”
“Yes; one more glass Baldo and then we will go.”
“Another . . . Another house red?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, two more reds and a pack of Parisiennes.”
***
Baldo walked off and soon returned with the wine and tobacco.
It was 2 a.m. when Baldo Sorrissi stepped out onto the via Guazzo, and closed and locked the door behind him. The restaurant, the Trattoria Potenza, a business he and his college mates had opened the year before, was going well and he had every reason to believe that the profits derived from polenta, spaghetti and baccala would see him through to a Bachelor’s Degree. He walked lightly along the cobbled street, mincing his steps with an air of importance.
It was a chilly January night. A nearly full moon swung overhead, occasionally obscured by sailing smudges of cloud. It had rained earlier in the evening and puddles had formed in the potholes along the narrow lane, which glinted with an oily light. Baldo lit a cigarette and turned up the collar of his jacket, in order to protect his sensitive neck from the cold. Grey smoke billowed from his nostrils and twisted from the cigarette end.
He turned right on the via Cappelli, past the closed shop fronts, with their spray-painted metal shutters drawn down, the soles of his shoes sounding crisp against the wet pavement. He flicked away his cigarette butt and stopped of a sudden to light another. As he stopped, he thought he heard the echo of footsteps behind him. He turned, but the street was black and empty. Adjusting his glasses, he smiled into the darkness, as if to show the person who was not there that he was at his ease, and then continued on his way, the perfume of a fresh cigarette pluming from his mouth. With moist, bud-like lips he gratified himself, inhaling deeply o
f the fragrant stream: the stalk of cheap tobacco which he imagined imbued him with a sort of offhand elegance. It was at times like these, when he was alone with no one about to provoke him into speaking, to hear the hesitating strains of his voice; it was times like these that he cherished: The night chill, black and romantic around him, his mind and mouth full of maleness, full of plans and possibilities, as the clouds sailed overhead, skirting before the moon.
He turned down the via Gorizia, a certain measure of jauntiness apparent in his aspiring step, as if the empty street, which he was walking down the middle of, was some kind of high profile catwalk with flash bulbs dazzling at every angle. The truth was however that the street was dark, dirty and unglamorous in the extreme. Notorious it was, but for the historian, not the paparazzi. In 408 Alaric I had made it wet with Italian blood, letting the guts of man, woman and child feel the smoothness of Gothic cutlery. Shortly thereafter, in the year 452, the king of the Huns, Attila, dubbed the Scourge of God, more or less levelled the same street on his way to Rome. Indeed, it had always been a place for cruelty to deposit its gore, being a meeting place for the screams of the populace every time the tumultuous city of Padua changed hands, was conquered or reconquered. The fact that this was the battleground of kings did not in the least hamper Baldo’s mincing gait.
The Translation of Father Torturo Page 3